


The Tale of the Birds

by pagination



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Female!Bilbo, Rule 63, The Hobbit Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 74,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6918556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four little hobbits went Adventuring. Bilba Baggins, sent to bring them back, found four little hobbit birds instead. Transformed along with a pair of dwarves by a batty wizard, their only hope is a spell that hasn't been performed in an Age. Bilba is a Baggins, which means Responsibility--and if traveling across Middle-Earth, dealing with ridiculously overprotective elves, and outsmarting a nutty king is what it takes, then that is simply what she'll have to do. </p><p>But goodness, she really could have done without this irritating dwarf prince!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hobbit Journeys

A hobbit was tramping through the forest.

Tramp tramp tramp. Here was his pack, neatly tucked and slung across his shoulders. Here was his walking stick, cut and polished of oak. Here was his dark green coat and bright yellow waistcoat; here his breeches of sturdy brown wool. Here was his brave little sword hanging at his side.

The animals of the forest, more accustomed to elves than hobbits, peered out at him through the trees and thought him very odd. Yes, yes, very odd indeed.

In point of fact, he cut quite a fine figure, though he would not have said so himself. Nothing to compare to elves, perhaps! But after all he was a hobbit, and hobbits should only be compared to other hobbits—and for a hobbit he was a handsome young fellow, with golden curls and rosy cheeks, a clever light in his eyes, and a mouth that was made for smiling.

At the moment though, the mouth was pinched in a frown. Not in anger or irritation, but in worry. For this hobbit had been traveling for many days now—more than any hobbit had outside the Shire since his mother had gone on her last great adventure—and he had hoped to have reached the end of his journey already.

The sun was high overhead when he finally stopped tramping, looking up to guess the time before patting his grumbling stomach. He stepped away from the path to put his pack down under a tree. There he sat himself on a convenient rock, and began unpacking. In a short time (for hobbits are quick when motivated) he had a merry little fire blazing, and a little iron pan over it full of good things: sausages, eggs, a cheerful handful of green.

The delicious smell floated through the forest, making animal noses twitch. The hobbit paid no notice, going about luncheon with the grave air of one who is undertaking Serious Business.

By and by, there came another sound down the path. The animals heard it first. _Tromp tromp tromp_ it went, heavier than the hobbit’s quiet footsteps had been. The animals crouched down and waited. _Tromp tromp tromp._ Soon the hobbit heard it too, and he lifted his head from his meal, his hand creeping uncertainly towards his sword.

_Tromp tromp tromp._

Around a bend in the path came a tall figure: a Man by the size of him, in heavy robes and a pointy hat. He carried a walking stick as well, gnarled at the top to match his weathered face. He was grey all over, beard and hair, scarf, robes, and hat, like a storm cloud that hasn’t decided yet whether to vent his temper.

At the sight of him, the hobbit let go his sword in astonishment. He sat up and cried, “Bless my eyes! It isn’t Gandalf, who does the lovely firecrackers!”

Gandalf, for it was he, stopped in his tracks. “Good gracious,” he huffed, beaming. “If it isn’t a hobbit. And so far in the Wild, too! I haven’t seen a hobbit out this way since Belladonna Took in her day. You have the look of her, my friend! _And_ you’re quite a ways from the Shire—which means you’re either a Took, or else you’re Belladonna's daughter.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m half of one and all of the other,” the hobbit said. “Bilberry Baggins at your service, though friends call me Bilba. Would you care to join me for luncheon?”

She stood up, apparently for the sole purpose of bowing to the wizard, who bowed cordially back. That courtesy done, Gandalf joined Bilba at her fire and drew up a log to sit on. “I would indeed,” he said with delight. “And an unexpected pleasure to see you, too! It’s been years since I’ve met up with a hobbit. When I saw you last, I dandled you on my knee while you tried to plant watermelon seeds in my beard.”

“The Old Took’s birthday,” Bilba remembered, putting on more sausages and a kettle of water for tea while Gandalf looked on with satisfaction. “They told tales of it for years! But tell me, I see you come from the other end of the Trollshaws where my maps say Rivendell is. Have you been there then, with the elves?”

“I’ve just come from there,” answered Gandalf, accepting a plate and a piece of trail bread with seeds and dried fruits baked into its shell. “If it’s your intention to go there, I might turn around and join you, if I may. It’s hard to find the Hidden Valley if you don’t know the trick to it, and there’s no hurry where I’m going. It’d be worth it to catch up on news from the Farthings.”

“But you said you’ve seen no hobbits in years,” Bilba said anxiously. “Does that mean there are none in Rivendell now?”

“None that I know of.”

“Oh,” said Bilba, her face falling. “Well, that makes a fine mess of things.”

Which was a strange thing for her to have said, perhaps. But the sausages and eggs were done, so her attention turned to more important things.

By mutual agreement they spoke of light matters (the better to aid digestion) over the luncheon of fry-up and hot, sweet tea. Gandalf hadn’t been in the Shire for many a long year, and he had had many friends there in his time, Disturber of the Peace though he was. After they were done eating, Gandalf helped clean and pack up the supplies before they set off together to Rivendell.

Bilba was well-pleased. Hobbits are a friendly folk, and Gandalf had once been a dear friend indeed to Belladonna Baggins, born Belladonna Took. He was possessed of many tales of adventures and things he had seen in his wanderings, and was quite willing to share them with his old friend’s daughter. The time passed pleasantly in this fashion as they tromp tromp tromped along. They were several miles from their pleasant picnic spot before Gandalf gently raised the question of why Bilba was traveling, so far out of the territory of her private and homebody folk.

“Chasing hobbits,” Bilba said simply.

“Indeed! Weren’t there enough in the Shire for you?”

“ _Specific_ hobbits if you must know. Four ‘tweens, three of them cousins of mine.”

“Out here? How’s this? Four young hobbits out of the Shire? You astonish me!”

“It’s quite my own fault,” Bilba sighed. “If you must know, my mother’s maps, and stories of adventures passed down to me. Not that I’m anything as bold and brave as she was. But I did a few trips here and there—nothing smacking of _real_ adventure, mind. Just a jaunt to the Grey Havens to see the elves, and a trip into the Old Forest a time or two.”

“The Old Forest!” Gandalf said, surprised. “Reckless doings, even for a Took!”

Bilba blushed. “I was still a ‘tween, then,” she excused, even though she was just past her majority now. Certainly she was too young to speak so deprecatingly of her judgment a scant handful of years ago. “But my cousin Drogo came to live with us last year after his parents died. He had dreams of adventure even before, and his friends Rory and Primula Brandybuck—Aunt Mirabella’s children, you know—were used to ask my mother for stories about elves and battles and quests and, oh! You know the sort.” Her face clouded with sorrow. The loss of her mother was still too near and hard for her to speak of Belladonna overmuch.

Gandalf, who remembered Belladonna and her storytelling with great fondness, agreed that he knew the sort. “But what that does to bring you out here, you haven’t explained.”

“I promised to take them on a proper adventure someday,” Bilba admitted, “though not until they were properly of age, mind! To see the elves, or maybe some dwarves, I was thinking. I’ve never been to the Blue Mountains, and mother used to say the halls of dwarves could rival the best of elves.“ She sighed, a wistful look in her eye. Then she drew himself up, bearing the weight of her responsibility with a small frown. “They were on about it while I was trying to do the accounting. Badgering and bebothering—why wait until they were older? Why not sooner? Why not now?

“So I told them that a true adventurer didn’t _ask_ for adventure; he went out and found it! Just to get them to leave me alone, you see. And then a few hours later I find the pantry empty, Drogo’s cloak gone, and my mother’s map to Rivendell gone from the library.”

At this, Gandalf burst out laughing. Even Bilba’s exasperation was not proof against the sound. Her mouth turned in a rueful smile.

“Worthy of Tooks!” said Gandalf.

“Well, Rory and Prim have Took through both their parents,” Bilba excused, “and even though Drogo is a Baggins by rights, he was Took through the Bolger side.”

“And you have Took through Belladonna herself, that most Tookish of Tooks! Paired with Baggins Determination. No doubt you’ll cause no end of trouble before your time is done.”

“I was thinking of settling into more Baggins Respectability,” sighed Bilba, like a hobbit of eighty-eight rather than the thirty-eight she actually was.

“Respectability, like diamonds, is something a body thinks he wants, but if wise, will discover that he doesn’t need,” opined Gandalf, who was not given to respectability himself. “But I take it since I find you here that your runaways are still lost?”

“Well, I waited a day or so. It’s not the first time a young hobbit has taken it into his head to go exploring, only to return by dinnertime. But dinnertime came and went, and no sign of Drogo. Then comes Aunt Mirabella and Uncle Gorbadoc, asking if we’ve seen Prim and Rory. And then even worse, Holman, asking after Ham!”

“Would that be the same Holman Greenhand who was gardener at Bag End? An excellent fellow. No approver of _my_ goings on, as I recall.”

“But a good friend to my parents and me,” Bilba said staunchly. “And still gardener at Bag End. His cousin Hamfast Gamgee is apprenticed to him, thinking to go into gardening rather than rope-making like his father. He’s a good lad with a good head on his shoulders. More solid than Drogo, I thought. But then Holman tells me he’s disappeared, and that he’d had a hankering to see elves. ‘I knew nothing good would come of teaching him his letters,’ he says!”

Gandalf peered down at her indignation from under the brim of his hat, amusement deepening the wrinkles on his kind old face. “Belladonna’s teaching, I take it?”

She nodded with pride. “And father’s. Bag End’s library will always be open to any who wants to learn. But Hamfast’s coat, rope, a pan, and pack were missing, the pantry raided—likewise with Primula and Rory. We visited Adalbert Bolger, fast friends with the scamps that he is, and he admitted the rest of them had gone off. ‘In search of elves,’ he said. ‘Straight off into the Wild!’ Adalbert happening to stay behind because he didn’t see fit to miss his supper.” She sighed. “There was no help for it. The Wild’s no place for four ‘tweens. I was the only one knowledgable enough and without encumbrances to follow, so here I am.”

“But surely they would have turned back by now?” asked Gandalf, torn between amusement and alarm. For the Wild was indeed a nasty and dangerous place—and it was a long two weeks from the Shire to the Trollshaws.

“I had word of them in Bree, and then again from some merchants I met camping at Weathertop,” Bilba admitted. “They took the East Road. If they stayed on it, I imagined they’d have reached Rivendell by now. I was only two days behind them there!”

“Unless one or the other of you traveled as a hobbit would, with breakfasts, luncheons, teas, and all the unnecessary rest of them,” Gandalf said wryly.

The implication that she might have been the one to delay ruffled Bilba’s feelings. She swelled up indignantly. “I’m sure there’s no call to be thumbing one’s nose at a decent meal at a decent time, when one has just reaped the benefits oneself!” she exclaimed. “But a case of lost young hobbits is more important than proper mealtimes. I’ve been traveling the way my mother taught me: three meals only, like the Big Folk do it! Though how they grow so big on so little, I can’t imagine.

“If I was delayed, it was because of other things, not my poor empty stomach. There were trolls on the road. Great, nasty brutes. If I hadn’t used the wits my parents gave me, I’d have more to worry me than lost hobbits right now. Though come to think of it, perhaps I wouldn’t. On account of being inside a troll’s belly, that is—I daresay there’s very little to worry about once one’s reached that end.”

“Trolls!” Gandalf exclaimed. “On the East Road?”

“Three of them.”

“And you escaped them! Using your wits, you say?”

Bilba blinked up at him, her nose twitching sheepishly. She was not much given to boasting, and the brief irritation that had made her speak of the trolls had already subsided. “Oh, well. They’re thick as mud, aren’t they? They had me trussed up like a rabbit for gutting, so I lectured them on proper cooking techniques for hobbit casserole until the sun rose and they turned to stone.”

It was with surprised respect that Gandalf stared at her. “Mountain trolls are dangerous creatures. Many an armed, experienced warrior has been slain by their kind. And you killed three with cooking techniques?”

“Herbs and treatment of the meat, and those sorts of things,” she said vaguely. “They seemed interested. I wasn’t armed then, of course, except for my slingshot. Though I don’t think a slingshot would have done much good, in any event.”

Gandalf laughed. “No, indeed! I take my hat off to you, Bilba Baggins. A more astonishing thing I have not heard in many years. Like mother, like daughter. Well, well, well! I see the apple doesn’t fall so far from the tree—and it’s remarkable fruit, to be sure!”

She blushed, both pleased and embarrassed by the compliment. “And I won a sword out of it, so it’s all to the good,” she said hurriedly. “I found it in a cave near the trolls, along with a great many mathoms and gold. There were other swords there too, though sized for Big Folk. I buried them. I thought if I reached Rivendell, the elves there would be able to go and retrieve them. After they tell me if they’ve had any news of my lost cousins and Hamfast, that is.”

“If the other blades are like yours, they’ll be pleased to do so,” Gandalf said, regarding her sword with interest. “That’s an elvish design on the scabbard.”

“The elves are welcome to them, then! Though I hope they’ll let me keep this one.” She patted its hilt. “I’ve grown fond of it, though I don’t know how to use it. It glows, you know.”

This surprised him. At his request, she allowed him to inspect the sword and scabbard both. The wizard muttered over the blade, his fingers gentle on the metal. He returned it with his thanks. “And it glows, you say?” he asked, as she fastened it again to her belt. “Where and when have you seen this?”

“From time to time. There’s no predicting it, though it makes a very pretty light at nighttime, when the fire’s low. I thought perhaps it detected wolves, for I heard some two nights back—but it’s glowed other nights without any howling.” She peeked up at Gandalf, alarmed to see the wizard’s face so grim. “Why, what’s the matter?”

“That glow is no night light, but a sign that evil things are nearby. Not wolves, but orcs—what you know as goblins. Trolls on the East Road! If there’s the one, it’s quite possible there’s the other.”

Bilba’s rosy cheeks turned quite pale. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she faltered. “Goblins, you say. And my cousins and Hamfast alone in the Wild! Blast and bebother them!”

Gandalf took his walking stick firmly in hand, and huffed into his long grey beard. “We must hurry to Rivendell. Lord Elrond will want to hear of the evil walking the East Road. And elf patrols keeping an eye out for orcs and goblins will not overlook four little hobbits in the doing of it!”

 


	2. The Brown Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Brown Wizard makes an appearance; an uncomfortable ride; Bilba reunites with friends and family, but finds them much affected by their travels; unexpected dwarves.

They traveled for the rest of the day, stopping only when it was almost too dark to see the road. The camp they made was quiet, but Bilba was uneasy with thoughts of goblins. She left her sword unsheathed so it could warn of approaching danger, and though Gandalf assured her that it was unlikely there would be any so close to Rivendell, she could not help but start awake from time to time to reassure herself that all was still quiet.

By the time the sun rose she was tired and irritable, and inclined to blame Gandalf for ruining the little peace of mind she had left.

“Never mind,” said Gandalf, laughing. “It’s nothing a spot of breakfast won’t fix.” He was not entirely correct, but a full belly did go some way to soothing Bilba’s nerves.

By and by they set out again. At their current pace, they were only some seven days away from Rivendell, according to Gandalf. They wiled the time away by exchanging stories: more gossip from the Shire, more tales of Gandalf’s adventures. It was a pleasant journey for all their haste and the grim reason for it. The sun was warm but the forest was cool, and the trees of the Trollshaws were friendlier than those of the Old Forest that bordered the Shire. If these trees watched the travelers, they did so with a gentler interest than that dangerous wood, their characters tempered by the kindly elves who kept them. From time to time, ground squirrels and birds would venture out to watch them pass, wary but unafraid.

Bilba felt her mood lift. After all, there was no saying that there wouldn’t be news of her missing relatives in Rivendell. And if her cousins had wandered off the path to forage in these woods, who was to say Gandalf hadn’t passed them on his journey, all unknowing?

They were three days traveling together without incident. It was two hours after luncheon on the fourth that Gandalf threw up a hand and stopped. Bilba, in the middle of a story about Holman’s prize-winning leeks, carried on for several more steps before realizing.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

“Something comes,” said Gandalf. And now that Bilba attended, she could hear a crashing in the distant trees of some presence passing willy nilly through it. It was no elf nor hobbit, who could pass like a shadow through the forest. Remembering talk about orcs and goblins, Bilba drew her sword, but it was not glowing. The fact was not as comforting as she would have liked.

The crashing grew louder. Bilba drew into the protection of Gandalf’s presence, her heart going pitter patter—and then she gave a squeak of surprise. For out of the low brushes by the road ahead sprang no orc, but a giant rabbit, as large as a hobbit! After it came another! And another! And still more after that, until twelve rabbits were galloping towards them on the road. Behind them reeled a loaded sled, ridden by one of the Big Folk.

At the sight of him, Gandalf heaved a great sigh, his shoulders relaxing. “No fear,” he told Bilba and stepped out into the road. He threw his arms, calling out, “Watch out, old friend! Or you’ll be squashing good travelers in your hurry!”

For a moment, Bilba feared that the rabbits would run quite over Gandalf and squash him, just as the wizard warned. But somehow the rabbits slowed and stopped. The Man in the sled cried, “What?! What?!” before tumbling quite off into the dirt.

Quite forgetting her own alarm, Bilba rushed to help him, Gandalf ambling a few steps behind her. Up close, the Man that Gandalf called ‘old friend’ proved to be old indeed, with a long beard much like Gandalf’s, and a seamed face, dark as hickory and much weathered. Where Gandalf was grey, this Man was brown—brown of robe and brown of hat, though his hat was of a shapeless and shaggy sort that didn’t lend itself to the heights that Gandalf’s aspired to.

“Radagast the Brown,” Gandalf greeted warmly as the other staggered to his feet. “You’re a long way from your usual haunts! This is a brother of my order, Bilba, and my friend for many long years.”

“I know your voice,” Radagast said, dazed. He clutched at Bilba and peered at her. “Gandalf? Gandalf! You’ve shrunk!”

Gandalf sighed another great sigh. In the relief of the moment, Bilba was hard pressed not to laugh. “Bilberry Baggins, at your service!” she introduced herself politely, though without the bow. The way the wizard tottered and leaned on her did not seem conducive to such courtesies.

“And I am as I ever was,” Gandalf said wryly. “Where were you going in such haste?”

“Where?” echoed Radagast, flapping his hands at Gandalf in an alarmed way. “Now, let’s see. That’s a very good question.”

“Is there an answer?”

“Oh. Ah,” said Radagast.

“Then _why_ are you in such haste?” Gandalf asked, when it seemed nothing more was forthcoming from him.

This question seemed as likely to produce an response as the first. Radagast stared all about him as though the forest itself could provide the answer. “I daresay there was a reason I was in such a hurry,” he mused. “Let me think. Was it—? No, it can’t have been that. Or—! No. Nonsense. Don’t look at me like that, Gandalf,” he pleaded, suddenly querulous. “It doesn’t help me _think._ ”

“Your rabbits are quite fast, aren’t they? I suppose it’s enough to rattle anyone’s wits,” said Bilba. She had the notion of being kind, for Gandalf’s expression was growing quite severe. Vague or no, it seemed quite hard on poor Radagast who seemed, as it were, not all _there_. Could wizards be moon-witted?

The look Radagast gave her was rather alarming. It was vague, true, but there was a glimpse of something ancient and powerful behind it. Something far beyond a simple hobbit’s understanding, that saw greater expanses than could be encompassed in her limited comprehension.

“I beg your pardon,” she said meekly.

“Oh!” said Radagast, his face clearing. “You’re a— what’s the word now, let me think. Starts with an ‘h.’”

“Hobbit, yes, we know,” Gandalf said.

“I’ve gone hundreds of years without seeing a hobbit—“ Radagast declared, as though he should be congratulated for it.

“Yes, but—”

“—And then here’s five in a row, just like that, in a handful of days. One, two, three, four, five. Like spring kits! Although it’s mid-summer, so that can’t be right.”

This was a stunner, and no mistake. “Other hobbits?” squeaked Bilba, clutching at Radagast’s sleeve. It was rough in her hand, homespun and thick. “Did you see other hobbits? Four of them? In the forest? Today?”

Radagast touched the fingertips on one hand nervously with his thumb, as though reassuring himself of his sums. “One, two, three, four—or maybe it was seven? And then there were the other two. Although I daresay it doesn’t matter now, since— oh! Gandalf! Gandalf! I remember!”

“Yes, yes, you just told us about the hobbits, well done, but _where_ —” Gandalf began, but Radagast clutched at him and breathed out, rapt, “No, no, there were _worcs._ No, _arcs_. No, dash it: _orcs_. Yes, that’s it. Orcs! And wargs!”

Bilba squeaked again. She looked at her sword in alarm. It was still not glowing. Gandalf though, narrowed his eyes and gripped Radagast’s arm hard, barking, “Orcs? Where?”

“Back—“ Radagast waved his free arm at the trees around them. Everywhere. Nowhere. “Goodness. I thought of course Thranduil, who’s never liked them, would— Were they _your_ hobbits, Gandalf? I seemed to remember that you had a fondness for the little folk. If I’d thought about it—but of course, there was no time. No time at all! It all happened so fast! And then, of course, it was too late.”

“Too late!” Bilba blanched. Her hands trembled as her heart sank. “Too late!”

“Speak sense, old friend!” Gandalf cried, shaking Radagast. “Too late for what? What has happened to the hobbits?”

“Oh. Well.” Radagast blinked at him. “I changed them into birds, didn’t I?”

It took a few seconds for this to penetrate. Bilba’s hands dropped, nerveless. Gandalf, seeming no less shocked, barked, “You did _what_? _”_

The tone of his voice was not encouraging. Perceiving he had annoyed his brother wizard, Radagast waved his hands in exculpatory flaps. “But, Gandalf! There were orcs everywhere! All around! And of course I couldn’t turn the _orcs_ into birds, because then there would be orc birds, and imagine what they would do to the rest of the animals! Really, I did quite the best thing for them! There’s no need to look like that.”

Indeed, Gandalf looked quite confounded.

“Into birds!” Bilba repeated, overwhelmed. “But they escaped the orcs, then?”

Radagast drew himself up. “Naturally! Because orcs were still all around, but birds can go _up_ , can’t they? Although they were a little hurt before I changed them, from swords and such things. I’ve bandaged them up and put them— now, let me think.” He deflated, wringing his hands. “They’re so cross.”

“Being attacked by orcs and turned into birds is not a thing calculated to lighten one’s temper,” Gandalf said, his face relaxing somewhat, though there was still something of shock in it. “But since when could you transform a creature into something else, Radagast? This was not a power you had when last we met. Not even Saruman can change what the One has made.”

“Oh! As to that—!” Radagast began.

“How badly are they hurt?” Bilba asked.

“Who?”

“Radagast is one of the best healers among our order,” Gandalf reassured her. “If there is anything to be done for them, he will see it done. Only Lord Elrond is more skilled, and he is nearby if we need his help. Do we?”

Radagast blinked.

“But the orcs!” said Bilba. “Where are they? Are they nearby? Are they coming? Can you take us to my cousins?”

“And how _did_ you manage to transform them into birds?” Gandalf asked.

Pitched questions from one side, then the other, then the first again, Radagast became quite lost and discomposed. He clutched at his hat and began to mutter imprecations, though not in any language that Bilba knew. Rather, it was as though an entire forest of animals had taken up residence on Radagast’s tongue: hisses, barks, chitters, and whines.

Gandalf gave his fellow wizard a comprehensive glance and said in placating tones, “Well, well, well! It seems we have more to learn, but there’s no rush to learn it. ‘Take care of the first things first, and the rest will follow,’ as your father used to say, Bilba! And the first thing, I think, is to find your cousins and collect them.”

Much relieved by this common sense, Bilba agreed wholeheartedly. “And the next step will be to turn them back to hobbits, I suppose.”

“As to that, we shall see!” said Gandalf. “Come, Radagast!” Radagast ceased with his mutterings. The rabbits perked up, looking at Gandalf with uncanny intelligence. “Lead us to our missing hobbit-birds, if you please!”

Even with the extra weight of Bilba and Gandalf on the sled, the rabbits made quick work of the travel. They plunged into the forest beside the road, back where they came. The Trollshaws was an old forest, with much underbrush and growth between the trees. But it was a healthy forest with the aid of the elves, which means the trees did not grow so close together that they fought jealously with each other over sun and rain. There was space for the sled to find its strange way: up a fallen log, down with a crash onto leaves, through a nettle bush—ugh!—and left-right-left-right around tall trunks.

Bilba quickly found herself dizzy and lost, and would have fallen off altogether if not for Radagast braced behind her. The brown wizard was not as comforting as the grey one was, with this quirk of turning innocent hobbits into unnatural things. Hobbit-birds indeed! But she was at least able to put worries about orcs aside. After all, she reasoned, if a wizard could turn hobbits into birds, why couldn’t he turn orcs into earthworms? Even a peace-loving hobbit knew what to do with those!

But the ride was hard and rough. By the time they reached their destination, her stomach was wobbling like a jelly just out of the mold. She tumbled off the sled as soon as it slid to a stop, landing in the dirt much like Radagast had on first acquaintance.

Distantly, she heard Gandalf’s voice complaining to Radagast about the ride. But the sound that distracted her from her unhappy belly was the shrieks of birds. Songbirds, raising their angry alarm. And more worrying still:the screech of an furious raptor.

She staggered to her feet.

She found himself in a small clearing. One of of it was a traveler’s tree, a great, ancient growth whose massive roots had pulled up high to create a natural hollow under which travelers could shelter. Inside it was a pile of things that Radagast had seen fit to keep there: a pan, a kettle, a small carved box, folded clothes. In the middle of the cleaning, just next to Bilba, were blackened stones that showed where a fire had burned.

There was sunlight filtering through the leaves. She turned around in the shaft of one, searching for the birds while Radagast and Gandalf spoke. “Drogo!” she cried out. “Prim! Rory! Hamfast!”

The sound of the songbirds cut off as though startled. Then there was a shriek. Out of one of the low branches dove three tiny bodies. Instinct drove Bilba to throw her arms over her head, but the birds did not attack. They zoomed around her, caroling in joyous cacophony. She uncovered carefully and raised one arm. A bird landed lightly on the perch she offered, its beak still open in song. Two more landed on her shoulders, their voices buzzing in her ears.

The one on her arm was tiny, its crest fluffy white, its cap black, with spots of black and grey speckling its sides and wings. Its singing was difficult to hear in the chatter, but its eyes were sharp and clever. 

“Drogo?” she asked incredulously

The bird—Drogo—bobbed his head and cheeped in pleasure.

The negligible weight on her left shoulder lifted, the bird on that one fluttering to land next to Drogo. It bumped him officiously, attempting to make him scoot over. Drogo dug in his little claws and fluffed up, hunkering down. That alone was enough to make Bilba laugh and cry out in happy recognition, “Rory!”

Rory was more brightly colored than Drogo, with a little poll of blue, a red breast, and black wings. He warbled sweetly, tilting his head in a fashion so expressive of cheeky self-satisfaction that Bilba could almost see the hobbit himself. “And that would make you—“ she began, craning her head to try to catch a glimpse of the bird on her shoulder.

That one she couldn’t feel at all, it was so light. With a blur of wings, it darted forward and hovered in mid-air before her. For the few seconds it stayed still, Bilba could see glistening green and blue, the long beak, the shining black eyes of a hummingbird—and then it was off in a mad dash through the clearing.

“Prim!” she finished with joy. “But where is Hamfast? Surely Ham was with you, too?”

Drogo tucked his head beneath his wing in grief or shame. Rory sprang into the air, heading back towards the tree he’d been perching on. Bilba followed. Closer, she saw that there was a basket hanging from a branch, a nest made of woven fronds and cloths. She quickened her steps, worry rising in her. In her haste, she did not notice the sharp, yellow-rimmed eye fixed on her from that same branch. She was thus unprepared when a shriek of fury sounded and a large bird swooped at her, claws extended to slash at her face.

She squeaked and hurled himself to the ground, huddling protectively over Drogo. A hawk! “Rory! Prim! Ham!” she cried, fearing for them.

There were little shrieks all around him and beneath her, Drogo squirming and flapping to get out. He was too small and quick, and Bilba too afraid of harming him by catching hold of him. With a great wriggle, Drogo burst free. Bilba squeaked again and jumped up, determined to save her cousins even if she had to lose an eye in the doing of it.

“Stop!” thundered Gandalf.

The hawk, in mid-air, veered sharply. It plopped down on the ground, utterly without grace. It glared up at Bilba, and in its yellow eye she saw fierce intent. The other birds were scolding furiously though, and Primula was suddenly there, hovering between the hawk and her as though to protect her.

“Hamfast?” Bilba asked, bewildered at _this,_ of all the transformations—and that Hamfast Gamgee would attack her? Surely not.

“I think Hamfast must be one of the birds injured in the nest,” Gandalf said, approaching with his fellow wizard fussing in his wake. “But this is no ordinary hawk either. Six, Radagast transformed, and he did not wait to see what they were before he did his magic. But you were only looking for four hobbits, not four hobbits and two dwarves.”

“Four hobbits were all that the merchants at Weathertop saw,” Bilba said, dazed, while the hobbit-birds returned to perch about her person. “If there were two dwarves, they must have joined my four separately. And I can’t think who they’d be! My four were never acquainted with any dwarves that I knew of!”

Gandalf peered down at the hawk, who did not seem to take kindly to being thus loomed over. It launched itself up to regain its branch, from which higher perch it glowered down at them.

“You have much to thank them for, whoever they were,” Gandalf said. “Radagast tells me they were defending your hobbits from the orcs, though they were about to be overpowered when he came upon them.”

The hawk made a scornful sound, but it did not object when Bilba said, “‘Them?’” and approached the basket with more caution than before. Inside the makeshift nest was another hawk, of the same kind but slightly smaller than the first. One wing was bandaged, but the other was cocked protectively over the small bird that nestled beside it. A dove of some sort, Bilba thought. Its eyes were closed, its beak gaped open as though it were gasping for breath.

The second hawk’s glare was as fearsome as the first’s.

“Hamfast?” Bilba whispered.

The dove didn’t answer.

There was little enough for Bilba to do but wring her hands over the nest. Drogo pressed up against her neck, comforting or wanting comfort. She patted his tiny head with her finger, careful of the fragile bones.

The wizards were arguing again. Bilba considered reaching in to stroke Hamfast’s back, but drew back when the hawk guarding him snapped its beak. Drogo winged down to snuggle up on Hamfast’s other side though, and Prim and Rory flew down to perch on the basket. Tears sprang up in her eyes to see all four of her hobbits restored to her, odd though that restoration was.

“You deserve that I shout at you for worrying us so,” Bilba told them sternly. Primula and Rory covered their faces with their wings. “If you only knew the uproar the Shire was in! Aunt Mirabella cried so much her eyes were swollen shut, and your father, Rory, was ready to head into the Wild himself! Holman was grey as chalk, thinking he might never see Hamfast again and wondering what he’d tell his father. And you, Drogo! You, of all hobbits, who knew my mother’s stories about the dangers of the Wild! How could you worry me so! Of all the irresponsible, silly, fluffy-headed twitter-pates! How you could be so thoughtless and selfish as to do this to us— and look what’s become of it! Poor Ham! Poor Ham!”

Drogo, who’d been holding his head up high in defiance, shrank in on himself at this. Bilba was, indeed, very angry. For going from terror and worry to relief, and then to worry all over again over Hamfast, it was only natural that she should find her refuge in wrath. But she could not hold it for long: the worry was stronger than the anger; and after all, shouting wouldn’t teach any lessons that Hamfast’s hurts hadn’t taught more brutally anyway.

Her shoulders sagged. “Well, I daresay Hamfast can be healed. I couldn’t face Holman if he can’t,” she said, looking sadly down at the dove. She reached out with a careful hand and this time the hawk did not snap at her. She stroked the little hobbit-bird’s soft, cool feathers, and hoped it gave him comfort.

Sensing they were forgiven, or at least that punishment would come later, Primula and Rory flew to her and tried to bury themselves under her neckcloth. They were very young, and orcs and transformations were frightening things—far beyond her own ken! She herself felt a little better for knowing the tiny hobbit-birds were safe in her care. Turning away, she stamped back to where the two wizards were huddled in discussion. They did not seem to notice her, so she cleared her throat: politely the first time, then pointedly the second.

“I beg your pardon!” she said, when they turned dark eyes onto her. “I’d like to thank you, Master Radagast, for your assistance to my foolish hobbits. They’re only ‘tweens, after all, and if you hadn’t come who knows what orcs would have done to them! We’re very grateful, I’m sure.”

Primula and Rory muttered in her ears, but bobbed their heads in reluctant gratitude while Bilba bowed.

Radagast looked flustered. “Well, my dear,” he said, and then gave up speech altogether to flap his hands at Gandalf.

Expectantly, she looked between them both. “What’s next, then? Turning them back? Or do we get them to Lord Elrond first?”

Primula vibrated excitedly in the hollow of her throat. Gandalf cleared his own throat in turn and darted a sidelong glance at Radagast, who only stared vacantly at the air above Bilba.

“I think,” Gandalf began, “Yes, I think the _first_ step should be to get the hobbit-birds to Lord Elrond. Radagast is certain he’ll recover, but Elrond can see what else he can do to help the injured one—“

“Hamfast,” Bilba interjected.

“—Hamfast,” Gandalf said with a nod. “And the hawk, whoever he is. Moving them as birds would be easier than herding six additional hobbits and dwarves through the forest.”

There was much to be said for that.

“And Radagast will be coming with us to help transform them back after,” Gandalf added firmly.

This seemed to come as a surprise to Radagast, who began to voice objections. Bilba was rather ruffled at the idea herself. She felt no urgent need to travel with a wizard who turned hobbits into unnatural beasts.

“Can’t _you_ transform them back?” she asked Gandalf privately.

He lowered his eyebrows. “No,” he said crankily. So that was that.


	3. Interlude: Rory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rory laments his poor judgment

Adventures were not at all what Rory had thought they would be.

It was not the first time Rory and his friends had gone on a walking trip or spend the night outside. Bilba had taken them more than once when they were old enough, and there were always older cousins and uncles willing to go on short jaunts overnight, following the Brandywine. But a hobbit walking trip was a thing of Comfort, made through tamed lands and never so far from home that one couldn’t be home (or at an inn) for more than a few hours’ walking.

The true Wilds were a very different thing altogether. Aunt Bella had left quite a lot out of her stories, Rory realized less than a week out of the Shire: but then, tales were undoubtedly more interesting without details about sore feet, growling stomachs, cold nights, and no plumbing. Orcs and wargs in stories were neatly decapitated without any gore, and heroes on quests never found ticks in their smalls after spending time in the wrong bush.

Nor did they get turned into birds.

Perhaps they should have turned back. He should've insisted Prim and Ham stay behind. He was the oldest. He should've told them they couldn't come. Rory would have been fine if he'd been by himself. Or maybe just himself and Drogo. They could've snuck past those orcs if it wasn't for Ham and Prim.

Full of sulky imaginings of Drogo and him thwarting the orcs most heroically, he hunkered down on the edge of the nest, grateful for the heat being put off by the hawk next to him.

It looked at Rory with a single, yellow-rimmed eye.

 _Concern_ , it shared.

 _Misery_ , Rory offered back, struggling to say that much without tongues or lips or teeth. His body arranged itself without command, fluffing up here, flattening feathers there, a low creak pressing out from his throat. _Rough wind._

_Danger?_

Rory managed to reject the concept of danger without entirely knowing how he did it. Seeing the hawk's lack of conviction in his refusal, he cocked his head to indicate Cousin Bilba. A flood of warmth washed over him. Cousin Bilba was almost as brilliant as Aunt Belladonna. She'd fix things.  _Safety_. _Trust._

 _Protect_ , the hawk reassured.

Rory peeped at him. It was meant to be _thank you_. It came out as an invitation to share his seeds. If he was still ahobbit, he would have blushed: the strange, wild bird part of him that understood flight, feathers, and song, knew the offer was close to the beginnings of courtship— _not_ what Rory had intended. 

Embarrassment made his bird body shove his head beneath his wing, where it was warm and dark so nobody could see him. He liked that. He wished he could do that as a hobbit.

The hawk chuffed. Rory peeked out at him.  _Amusement,_ the hawk concluded.

It was odd, being a hobbit-bird, two different beasts crowded into one body. The bird part of Rory was terrified of the hawks. The hobbit part of him, remembering the way the dwarves had torn through the orcs with little more than a knife and a tree branch between them, was comforted. And indeed, the transformed dwarves had been nothing but kind towards the hobbits, although they could very well have blamed them for their predicament.

The freedom of flight came with a terrifying compression of thought. Instincts and emotions that weren’t his battled with hobbity sense and reason, occasionally rising up in a tide that swept all rational thought away. It might have been a relief at mealtimes, when the bird part delighted in grubs and seeds and gobbled them up before Rory could be revolted. As a rule, he preferred meat pies with mushroom gravy, but that was probably not going to be in the offing anytime soon.

Feeling woeful and terribly sorry for himself, he wriggled down further, attempting to avoid the whip of wind lashing them all over the rim of the sled. He glanced up. Cousin Bilba was clinging hard to the wood frame, her face turning green.

“Oh d-d-d-dear,” she moaned, through the jouncing of the sled. "I wish I ha-ha-hadn't ha-ha-had tha-a-a-t last sau-au-au-sage. Oh b-b-b-bother it."

Travel-sickness by rabbit. No, adventures truly weren’t anything like the stories.


	4. Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our travelers arrive at Rivendell; the healing arts are exercised; the dwarves make an awkward discovery; and Bilba is dismayed.

"The Last Homely House, indeed! Big Folk and their ridiculous notions of what constitutes a 'house!'" Belladonna Baggins had once told her daughter. "But 'homely' is right enough. They understand comfort and good company in Elrond's house, which is more than you can expect from most Big Folk. Although you'd never know it to look at it--it's too grand. Those silly Elves! But it's a sight, all the same."  

So said Belladonna, and Bilba saw that her mother was right, as usual: for when she reeled off the sled into the courtyard, she went from wind-drunk to beauty-drunk in a single blink. Her head tipped back, her mouth falling open: a leaf could have fallen in, and she not the whit wiser. From this distance the silly _tra-la-la-lally_ -ing of the wood elves was wordless and lovely, a fit melody over the hiss of waterfalls.

Rivendell! Such glory hurt the heart. It was a place of comfort, of epic tales, of poetry and music that moved the stars to weep. It was a place where heroes grievously injured came to rest and heal, and the lowly were made high.

All in all, it was almost alarming to a very small hobbit.

“In Lord Elrond’s halls live the greatest healers of this age. Hamfast will be in good hands,” Gandalf told her, patting her back. The hawk riding the wizard’s shoulder made an imperative sound, and he added smoothly, “As will his brave protector.”

There were elves gathering in the courtyard to greet them, cries of “ _Mithrandir!_ ” and “ _Aiwendil!_ ” welcoming the wizards. Bilba hugged the nest to her chest, finding herself the subject of some astonished looks from the elves. Doubtless they didn’t see many hobbits. The rest of the hobbit-birds clung to Bilba’s jacket, afraid to go far but eager with curiosity. They hopped around her as they needed to in order to see more of Rivendell: and that sight was certainly strange enough, even for elves.

The descriptions Belladonna had given Bilba of Elrond made it easy to identify the Lord of Rivendell when he descended the stairs. “Ageless like all elves,” Belladonna had said. “Beautiful, of course. They all are, confound them! But when _he_ walks into a room it’s like— oh! seeing the ocean for the first time. Encountering something vast and powerful and wise, and so old maybe even the Old Forest wasn’t even an acorn when it was born. And sometimes so sad, you feel your heart tearing out of your chest.

“Still, he’s kind even when he doesn’t have to be, and always pays attention to the folk that other great ones wouldn’t even notice. And you wouldn’t think it, but he can be just as silly as the rest of the elves, with their songs and odd jokes and pranks. If you meet his sons, you’ll see. They had to get it from _somewhere_.”

There was nothing of silliness in evidence when Elrond greeted the wizards. Belladonna’s description had not entirely prepared Bilba for this first meeting of one of the great ones of Middle-Earth—but she understood her mother’s words better now that she saw Elrond in person. The power, the age, and the wisdom she saw. Also the ageless beauty. But there was warmth in his face when he opened his arms for Gandalf’s embrace, and kindness in his greeting to the agitated Radagast. Seeing it, Bilba was comforted.

By the time Bilba’s turn came, all of the birds were perched on her, the hawk having fluttered off Gandalf to weigh down Bilba’s shoulder when Elrond had embraced him.

Elrond showed no inclination to hug her, Bilba was relieved to see. The hawks were hissing at him—quite rudely, in Bilba’s opinion!—but Elrond paid no heed. There was astonishment in the elf-lord’s face when he regarded them however.

“You bring a marvel to my house, Mithrandir,” Elrond said, wondering. “Five hobbits and two dwarves—but not all in the shapes that they were born with. I had never heard that there were skin-changers among either folk.”

“Bilberry Baggins, my Lord Elrond, and my thanks for your kind hospitality!” said Bilba in her very best Sindarin, red-faced and hopelessly flustered, but determined to demonstrate that the daughter of Belladonna Baggins had been taught her manners. She bowed with great care for the birds she was carrying. Back in Westron, she continued, “And these little scamps are my cousins. Drogo Baggins, Primula Brandybuck, and her brother Rory Brandybuck, while this poor lad in the basket is Hamfast Gamgee. I don’t know about _skin-changers_ or _dwarves_ , but perhaps you mean these other two, here! I don’t know their names, but I and mine are much obliged to them. If you could do anything to help them, I’d take be most grateful!”

“Not skin-changers!” echoed Elrond, entertained by the careful bows each hobbit-bird made as it was introduced. “But what is this?”

Gandalf cleared his throat. “Enchantment happens, my friend. But they were under attack from orcs,” he added with more confidence, “so of all possible outcomes, this was hardly the worst.”

Elrond turned his look of amazement on Gandalf. “Is this your doing, Mithrandir?”

Both wizards looked uneasy, in their own ways. “Radagast can speak to it better than I,” Gandalf said. “But that is a matter forlater. In the meantime, the more urgent question is whether you can do anything to aid Hamfast?”

The look Elrond gave him and Radagast promised more conversations in the future, but he took the hint. The elf-lord stooped and reached carefully in to take up Hamfast, only just avoiding losing a finger to the protective hawk beside him. “Peace, Master Dwarf,” Elrond said, eyeing the bird with bemusement. “I will do him no harm. But it would be easier to treat him if he were a hobbit again.”

“Oh dear,” said Radagast.

Gandalf cleared his throat again and looked askance at Radagast. “As to that, there are some . . . complications,” he said.

“I beg your pardon!” said Bilba. “Complications? What sort of complications?”

“Perhaps another conversation to be had later,” Gandalf suggested, avoiding Bilba’s eyes. “Is there anything you can do for a bird, my friend?”

Here was a fine kettle of fish indeed! Bilba had more to say on the matter, but Elrond rose, cradling the gasping Hamfast in his two hands. “Perhaps. You are welcome, all of you, to Imladris,” he said, turning his gaze to each in turn: wizards, hobbit, hobbit-birds, and hawks. “Rest, all of you. Let what peace we can provide be yours. Come,” he said down to Bilba, his face kind. “We shall take your injured friends to the Halls of Healing, and see what can be done.”

 

  


Lord Elrond conveyed Bilba to the Halls of Healing and left them there, to the astonishment and interest of his healers. Eventually, two were found who had healed animals, and understood birds. What magic they used, she could not say—but at the end of it Hamfast was breathing more easily and had opened his eyes, so she was content. The hawks, when the elves would have inspected the injured hawk’s wing, were unhappy nonetheless. Their objections drew blood, and pierced eardrums with screeching until Bilba cried out, “What manners! For shame! For shame!” and cowed them into peace. By which token, she guessed that they were young dwarves, or at least dwarves with mothers.

“—though there is little enough that our skills can do for him, so Master Dwarf may keep his talons to himself,” said the chief healer, whose name was Hithlain. He regarded his scratched hand with wry regret. “Aiwendil’s care was good. Only time and rest can help him now. The wing is not broken, so he will fly again—but he is not to try until the flesh is healed!”

“It’s to be hoped the need doesn’t even arise,” Bilba said. “Radagast must change them back. It may be a fine thing to be able to escape orcs, but it’s much better to be a dwarf or a hobbit than it is to be a bird!”

The hawks made sounds that were much like cheers, while Prim zipped through the room.

“The great eagles of Manwë would disagree,” Hithlain said cheerfully, “but then, I too would not wish to be anything other than what I am.”

There were many instructions for Hamfast’s care, whether he be bird or hobbit. “Though as to diet, you must do what seems fit,” Hithlain said, “for I will not have it said that I starved a hobbit by ordering he eat seeds, while a hobbit’s foods would kill even a bird that used to be a hobbit. Pray use your common sense! I would not say so to any other race, but _your_ people, I recall, are occasionally capable of it.”

Once Bilba had promised faithfully to bring Hamfast back the next day, another elf came to convey her to a room where she could rest. The furnishings in it were made for people of sensible height, she was pleased to see. Bed, chairs, tables, dressers—all were built to a size that would have suited her own home of Bag End. There were many high windows looking out over gardens the size and beauty of which she had never seen before. Her cousins swooped happily in and out, exploring the room and the gardens beyond, their spirits restored by Hamfast’s recovery.

She put the nest onto the sill to let Hamfast and his companion watch their play. The uninjured hawk perched on a branch just outside where he could see both sets of his friends and keep guard.

Bilba refreshed herself and cleaned what she could with the water and towels so thoughtfully provided. That done, she watched her transformed kin with indulgent fondness and let her mind wander. For the first time in weeks, she felt almost at ease. That her lost hobbits were found and safe was a comfort: that they were birds was perhaps a little inconvenient, but surely Lord Elrond and the wizards would be able to fix that problem. To be at the end of her adventure at last! It was as though she had put down a long-carried pack, and only now realized how heavy it had been.

Comforted, she sighed and settled back in a chair, closing her eyes. In her youth she had always imagined visiting Rivendell beside her mother, sharing in her adventures. To be here without her felt like a cheat, somehow. Not for the first time, regret and grief twisted inside her chest for all the chances she had not seized when Belladonna was alive—but in the healing air of Rivendell, the ache was less sharp than it had been before.

By and by, she rose up to investigate drawers in the dresser. Within, she discovered hobbit-sized clothing: waistcoats, shirts, breeches. She held them against herself and found they were a close match for her size. In a closet she found three dresses, also hobbit-sized. On the bodice of one chestnut-brown dress she recognized her mother’s embroidery: oak leaves for bravery, irises for hope.

Clutching it to her chest, she looked around the room again with new eyes. Belladonna had been an elf-friend, an adventuress, a frequent visitor to Rivendell before she had wed. This must have been the very room that she’d used, her clothes still waiting for her return as though she’d step in at any moment.

A small chirp sounded from the chair by the dresser. With a start, Bilba realized that her eyes were wet. She swiped at them with the back of her arm. Drogo was perched on the back of the seat. His head was cocked to stare at her. The rest of the birds were perched about the room, doing much the same. She imagined they looked worried.

“I beg your pardon!” she said, and drew out her handkerchief to blow her nose. “I was just thinking about my mother. She was an elf-friend, you understand,” she said for the dwarves’ benefit, for the hobbits at least knew who Belladonna was. “She once saved Lord Elrond’s sons from some villagers with her slingshot and some mud. She used the mud to disguise herself as an orc, you see. She used to visit Rivendell quite often with Gandalf. I’d always rather hoped I could visit here with her, when I was old enough.”

She blew her nose again. The larger of the two hawks was still staring at her, fascinated. The smaller one had averted his gaze to fuss over Hamfast.

Drogo fluttered up to her shoulder, fluffed himself up, and nestled against Bilba’s neck. With quick flicks of their wings, Prim and Rory joined him.

Hobbits were by nature a affectionate folk, given to pats and embraces among their friends and relations. Since Drogo’s move to Bag End however, he had rather avoided Bilba. Instead, he had escaped the smial as often as possible to spend time with his friends, returning only for meals and a quick bath before bed.

“Give him time, my dear,” Belladonna had said before she’d died. Her face was lined with sickness and sorrow for Bungo’s death five years gone, but even weighed down with illness she had had thought to spare for the young orphan she had taken in. “Too much has changed too soon for him, and he’s still finding the way of dealing with it. But he has the same spirit in him that you do:part respectable Baggins, part wild Took. In time you’ll see. You’ll become good friends—and even if you don’t, he’ll still be family.”

Bilba was comforted now by the soft warmth of feathers against her skin. She dried her eyes with her handkerchief and put it away, taking care not to disturb her cousins’ perch.

“Thank you, my dears,” she said, smiling down at them. “And you’re quite right. That’s enough of feeling sorry for myself. As though we had time for me to be in the sulks! I must get ready and not be caught dawdling, or else I’ll make us quite late to luncheon.”

The hobbit-birds launched themselves up in a frenzy of excitement—even as birds, they retained hobbit appetites. Bilba laughed through their acrobatics, cheered by their enthusiasm.

She shooed the uninjured birds outside for modesty’s sake before drawing a changing curtain across the closet. The thought of wearing clean clothes after weeks of travel was too much to resist. Belladonna had been slightly taller than her, but otherwise their builds were much the same. Stripping, she used what was left of the water she cleaned herself as best as she could, hoping that there would be baths in the offing later, then slipped on a clean breastband and chemise from the drawer, over which she threw the embroidered brown dress. Being out of her bindings was relief enough; the pleasure of having clean cloth against her skin was nothing short of miraculous.

She drew back the curtain and went to inspect herself in the mirror.

There was nothing to be done for her hair. On her mother’s advice, she always cut it short before leaving the Shire to suit her male attire. “Even with a wizard about it’s best not to borrow trouble,” Belladonna had told her. “After all, a wizard can’t be everywhere at once, and they wander off worse than children who’ve just found their walking legs! Hobbits and elves are safe enough, but some dwarves and Men aren’t to be trusted with knowing that a woman’s a woman. It’s just easier all around for outsiders to think you’re a lad when you’re traveling.”

At the time, she’d been confused by what Belladonna meant, but trusted her wisdom all the same. It wasn’t until her first journey to the Grey Havens that she’d heard the rough talk of fellow travelers and learned what foul things other races were capable of.

She had just found a comb and was raking it ruthlessly through her curls when she heard a startled pair of squawks. She turned just in time to watch the larger hawk veer sharply away from collision with the wall and land gracelessly on the bed. He bounced a couple of times and skidded right off the other side to disappear with a thump.

Alarmed, and with the anxious _kee-kee-kee-kee!_ of the other hawk ringing in her ears, Bilba scrambled around the bed to see if the hawk had injured himself. She stopped dead when the bird came flap-hopping around the corner of the bed, wings working wildly. He lunged at the hem of her skirt, making her backpedal. Her heel caught on fabric and down she went, sprawled all over the floor.

The hawk bounced after her and took up the hem of her skirt again, this time with one clawed foot instead of his beak. His squawk sounded confused.

Manners, indeed! Blushing, she tugged the fabric out of the hawk’s grip and stood, twitching her dress into order. “I beg your pardon!” she said, chagrinned. “I don’t know how it is amongst dwarves, but for hobbits, it’s not at all the thing to . . . to fumble about with a woman’s skirts without so much as a ‘by your leave’!”

There was a chorus of cries from the hobbit-birds, though they sounded more entertained than scolding. In reaction, the hawk bobbed a sheepish bow. It was astonishing, Bilba reflected, how easy it was to understand sentiment even without words to explain between dwarf and hobbit. She couldn’t help but be charmed by the obvious sincerity of the dwarf's remorse and the way it peered up at her with its feathers fluffing.

“Apology accepted!” she said, still a little pink. “As to that, I daresay you didn’t have any real cause to realize I was a woman either. I was advised not to advertise the matter while traveling outside the Shire, and from all I’ve learned since, it seems like good advice, worth taking!”

The hawk on the sill crooned approvingly, which Bilba found insensibly reassuring. She curtseyed to the hawk on the floor, and received another awkward bow in return. “Let us call it misunderstandings on both sides, Master Dwarf, and I make you my own apology in turn.”

This meeting with the enthusiastic agreement of all the birds, Bilba found herself smiling.

She had just enough time to put herself in order before an elf came gently tapping on her door. He informed her that a private luncheon was being organized for her and her companions—here the elf turned astonished gazes to the hobbit-birds that were arranging themselves on Bilba’s person—with Lord Elrond and the wizards. Taking up the nest in her arms, the rest of the birds winging ahead of her, she followed the elf out onto a porch that looked to the east. The sun was high and warm in the sky, but a breeze drifted up from the waterfall nearby, cooling the air enough to be comfortable.

Lord Elrond and the wizards had already arrived, and rose as she entered. Gandalf’s eyes in particular twinkled as he beheld her new clothes. “You are the very image of your mother, my dear,” he said. He offered his hand to guide her to a chair, stacked with pillows to the height of the table, but with stairs for her to mount with dignity. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was looking at Belladonna herself.”

She blushed.

“Indeed,” Lord Elrond said warmly, “you have much the look of her, Mistress Baggins. Your mother was a dear friend to me. I was grieved to hear of her loss, but my doors are always open to her daughter. I will hope this is but the first of many meals we will take together.”

Fine words! She blushed even harder, momentarily bereft of words. In the end, all she could manage was a squeaked _thank you_ , and had to hide her face in a goblet of water to regain her composure.

While she recovered, the conversation flowed cheerfully around her. Radagast had recovered from whatever fit of sulks had afflicted him earlier, and was eagerly telling Elrond and Gandalf about blight in the lands over the Misty Mountains. Bilba looked around and found her birds perched on a table nearby.The other hawk had made his way out of the nest to join them. The elves had put out food for them appropriate to their forms: seeds, fruits, and flowers for the hobbits; trays of raw, bloody red meat for the dwarves. Some kindly elf had done the same for Hamfast in his nest. It looked unappealing to her, but the birds seemed content enough with what they had.

She filled her plate and ate heartily, listening more than speaking as Elrond, Gandalf, and Radagast spoke of weighty things. From time to time a question was addressed to her about her journeys, drawing her into the conversation. She told Elrond about the trolls and their hoard, and the conditions of the East Road as politely and as honestly as she could. In the company of elves and wizards, a prudent hobbit would be better off not pretending to be wiser than she was!

Eventually however, even the affairs of kings and kingdoms must pall.The hobbit-birds had come to perch on the arms of her chair, the hawk on the back, when Lord Elrond sat back in his seat to say dryly, “At some point, Aiwendil, we must have the tale of how dwarves and hobbits became birds—and why there might be _complications_ in restoring them to themselves.”

Radagast declared, “It wasn’t any of _my_ doing.” As eyebrows rose around the table, he amended, “Or at least, I didn’t plan it that way. I didn’t even think that I knew that magic! And I was quite right, too!” He nodded once, firmly. “I don’t know it at all!”

“Radagast is the greatest of our order when it comes to shapes and seemings, after all,” Gandalf interjected helpfully, “It seems that in the excitement of the moment and not knowing what else to do, my old friend drew on that gift and . . . improvised. As it were.”

“Improvised!” echoed Bilba, paling. “Do you mean to say he didn’t know what he was doing?”

Both wizards scoffed. “I knew exactly what I was doing!” Radagast cried indignantly, only to add in flattened accents, “I simply had no notion that it would have this particular outcome.”

“What were you intending to accomplish?” Elrond asked, curious.

Radagast shrugged one shoulder, then the other after it, as though he had forgotten he had two. “There was supposed to be a blinding light from them. Orcs, after all. They dislike light, though they can travel in it if they must. Only, usually one does that spell on one’s own self, not on others. It’s all very interesting, really,” he added, brightening.

He looked ready to say more, but Gandalf cut off a possible lecture with, “At any rate, an unexpected outcome.”

“But you can reverse it, surely? After all, you did it once,” Bilba said.

“Oh. Well,” said Radagast, and fidgeted.

Elrond had closed his eyes to rest his brow in one hand. “One _might_ wonder how it is possible you did it at all,” he sighed into his wrist.

“A very good question!” Gandalf said, “Until you consider that even Men and hobbits transform things all the time. What is fire, after all, but something that was once wood or oil? And what is strength to wield an axe, but food and sleep turned into muscles and will?”

Elrond looked faintly incredulous.

“At no time does the natural progression of a hobbit result in . . . in _warblers,_  robins, and hummingbirds!” said Bilba, indignant at this foolishness.

Radagast said sadly, “Warblers, robins, and hummingbirds are so much nicer than dwarves and hobbits though, really. You’d think they’d be happier this way.”

The birds, who had grown increasingly agitated during the conversation, now chose this moment to express their opinion of current affairs. Bilba reached up just in time to prevent the larger hawk from launching himself at the wizard, ending up with a faceful of flailing feathers and claws for her trouble.

Elrond peered at her from under his hand, the corner of his mouth lifting. Gandalf said hastily over the shrieks, “Well well, that’s quite beside the point, really. After all, what’s happened has happened. The important thing now is that what happened be _unhappened_ , as it were. I have a few ideas about that, as does Radagast—“

“I do?” said that unhappy wizard.

“—And with Lord Elrond’s help, I’m certain we can find a solution to our problem.”

“Ah,” said Lord Elrond, sitting up and dropping his hand. His face was rueful. “And here we come to it. ‘With Lord Elrond’s help,’ is it? It is as well I have already promised you what aid my house can offer!”

“Thank you very much!” said Bilba, grateful. The hawk had settled down, rigid in her lap. It was an uncomfortable intimacy for both of them:whatever the body, the spirit within was a dwarf—and its talons hurt besides, piercing right through the dress though she could tell it was trying to be careful. “The sooner they are all back to their bodies, the sooner I can take my four home. There are anxious parents waiting in the Shire! No doubt there are dwarves waiting for this unfortunate pair, too. It seems very hard that they should be cursed so, when all they did was try to save my kin.”

Radagast raised an indignant cry at that. _Cursed! How, cursed?!_ But Elrond turned a thoughtful eye to the hawks, inclining his head in acknowledgment.

“Patrols have ridden out in search of these orcs you encountered,” he told them gravely. “If they should come across dwarves searching for their lost ones, they will send them here.”

“Perhaps Radagast could speak to them!” suggested Gandalf, but his brother wizard shook his head.

“I can’t talk to them,” he said querulously. “They don’t speak a language I know. It’s not right. Not bird speech, nor dwarf speech. They’re not _proper_ birds at all.”

Both hawks hissed at him. Elrond raised his brows. “In any event, we will do what we can to make your stay comfortable, Master Dwarves. Long has it been since your folk stayed within these walls; but once, I had friends among your people. For their sake, and for the sake of Mistress Baggins, treat my home as your own until you are restored to yourselves.” He inclined his head to them. To Bilba’s surprise, they bobbed their heads back to him, more civil than they had been at the outset.

Bilba had no notion how dwarves behaved in their own homes. It seemed somewhat reckless of Elrond to invite them to do the same in his own. Still, it wasn’t likely they’d need to stay long. With two wizards and Lord Elrond bending their minds to it, surely it would only take a day or two?

 


	5. A Matter of Identities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Wise study the problem; modesty is offended; the dwarves are named

It did not take a day or two.

Nor did it take a week.

At the end of the eighth day, seeing no immediate end in sight, Bilba wrote a letter to the waiting hobbits in the Shire to tell them all that had transpired. Rangers came through Rivendell from time to time, said Elrond’s seneschal; and Rangers could carry a letter to Bree, and from there on to the Shire.

 _As yet none can make promises about when this Matter will be Resolv'd; but I assure you that Primula, Rory, Drogo, and Hamfast are in good health and eating well, even if they are covered in Feathers_ _,_ Bilba wrote, feeling remarkably foolish as she did so and wondering just what the sensible hobbits of the Shire would make of that.

“They'll think I've gone quite mad! And I can't say that I'd blame them for it.” She sighed. "I'd best ask Lord Elrond or Gandalf to write as well, before Aunt and Holman nerve themselves up to investigate for themselves."

The smaller of the two hawks, now healed of his injuries, crooned a sympathetic agreement.

The wizards and Elrond had spent much of their time holed up in the library. The wizards had smoked a great deal of pipe weed. There were discussions and more discussions, in languages that Bilba didn’t recognize but that sounded elven to her ears. From time to time, they would summon her and the birds, whereupon some spell casting might happen (nothing came of it) or more frequently, further discussion.

Radagast seemed to be of the mind that the birds would be able to change back if they simply applied themselves to it. “ _Concentrate_  on what you want to be,” he said at the end of long argument, pulling at his hair. “Surely the body will follow?”

“Is that how it’s done among the Big Folk?” Bilba asked, skeptical of this idea. “It is certainly not anything that happens among _mine_ , or else there would be any number of young hobbits dashing about as rabbits and ponies or some such.”

“Indeed, I recall you telling me once—with admirable confidence!—that you would grow up to be an elf someday,” Gandalf told Bilba, his eyes twinkling.

Elrond was kind enough not to smile at Bilba’s blushes. “Save for one who is lost to the West, there are no skin-changers amongst elves, nor have there ever been,” he said, watching, bemused, as Radagast wagged his finger at Hamfast and was soundly pecked for that indignity. “Even so, that was by the mercy and power of Ulmo, not by her own will.”

“Indeed, I can’t think that’s the way to go about it. It will be so easy as that,” Gandalf said, scratching at his beard-addled chin.

“Nonsense,” Radagast declared, and promptly disappeared. Bilba looked down with dismay to find the wizard’s robes crumpled on the floor, a sleek red fox winding about her feet.

She squeaked and went quite red; her hands flew to cover her eyes. “I beg your pardon!” she cried, quite affronted. “Is this what is considered respectable amongst wizards? Frolicking _naked_ in libraries?” 

Elrond hastily turned his face away to hide his amusement. But Bilba was wiser than she knew; with her eyes covered, she missed Radagast’s transformation into a Man again, in all his pink and wrinkled glory.

The birds shrieked with mirth.

“I was not _naked_ ,” Radagast said, aggrieved. “Fur is not _nakedness_.”

Gandalf threw a blanket over his brother wizard. “ _Naked_ is naked, and there are modest eyes about!” he said soothingly. “Hide the light of your greatness, old friend, before you blind the unwary! There, now.You may uncover your eyes, Bilba.”

But Bilba had moved on to a new and horrifying thought: trivial perhaps, but it seemed the final straw in a trying circumstance. “Are my cousins and Hamfast naked?” she demanded, appalled on their behalf. “Are the _dwarves_ naked? Are my hobbits consorting with _naked dwarves, while they are also naked?_ ”

The birds inspected each other with new interest. Elrond’s shoulders were shaking, now.

Gandalf controlled himself with admirable aplomb and shook his head. “Come now, Bilba. I am surprised at you! Hobbits are not prudish about such things. I’ve seen many a hobbit playing in the shallows of the Brandywine, and in mixed company, too.”

“But they keep their _smalls_ on! I have no notion what dwarves wear under their clothes!” Bilba cried. The scowl she turned on Radagast was accusing. “Where have their smalls gone?”

“ _Change back_!” Radagast cried, and thrust a finger at the birds. A soft _whomp!_ of air set pages turning and hair stirring. The birds shrieked and fluttered up in dismay. A nearby book caught on fire, to the horror of a passing librarian.

After that, Bilba declined to participate any further.

“You may call on us when you are certain of your course,” Bilba said firmly, making her escape with the birds in flight before her. “It’s a poor healer who cures the disease by _exploding_  the patient!”

She closed the doors on the sound of Elrond’s laughter.

There being no progress on that front, Bilba turned her attention instead to the entertainment of her companions: for hobbit 'tweens are an active and curious lot, and there was enough Took blood between them to turn a Sackville-Baggins' hair white. Fortunately, Rivendell abounded in sights and amusements, and the elves were charmed by the hobbits, winged or otherwise. Children were few to elves, but infinitely precious: and though all mortals were young to an elf,  _periannath_ more than any other mortal kind drew out the most protective and nurturing instincts among them. Many a joyous hour was spent playing games with the elves in the gardens of Elrond's house; and when the hobbits tired, there were always pleasant afternoon naps in those same gardens, while elves sang and told tales.

The magic that had gone into transforming hobbits and dwarves had been strangely thoughtful, Bilba soon realized; the breeds they had become were curiously appropriate to their natures. Prim’s hummingbird was the most clearly matched. Her quick curiosity and quicker distractibility was a match for when she was a hobbit; though they discovered she would collapse if she didn't eat every hour, she more than the others reveled most in her new state. Rory's robin was more sedate, but his eager mind and interest in the people around him suited his merry new body well. Though he was slower than Prim, he was almost as enthusiastic about flight, hurling himself after his sister with gleeful abandon.

Drogo's breed, Bilba was unsure of, and elven words failed to answer the question. But there were many in the Shire, and she knew their manners: prone to caution, quieter than other songbirds, disappearing from sight until they exploded into the air to startle unwary passersby. Drogo was more cautious than his cousins, spending long hours perched on Hamfast’s nest or quietly huddled next to the hawks or Bilba. Then there were times when he would hurl himself into the sky, Prim and Rory in pursuit—and so pass from all knowledge for hours until they came straggling back, exhausted and drunk on flight.

Ham himself was recovering quickly. Already he could flutter from his nest to the sill and back again, to be congratulated by his fellow birds for his accomplishments. The peaceful nature of the dove suited him, Bilba thought, for as a hobbit he was ever soothing ruffled spirits and doing kind deeds for the unhappy. He more than any other appreciated sitting in laps to be petted, though it was Prim who was the youngest of the four. But Ham was humble and took pride in his work, not his dignity; and he was, besides, a restful little soul.

Bilba fretted after her hobbits. Whatever their spirits, their bodies were the rightful prey of all predators in the wild. Rivendell’s peace did not, so far as she knew, promise sanctuary to songbirds that caught a hungry hawk’s eye. Her only comfort was that the dwarves went with them, often, and kept guard in the gardens when they played there.

Most often it was the smaller hawk and Ham who played her companions. She spoke to them all as though they were still dwarves and hobbits, for they seemed to understand her as though they still were. They were, she thought, grateful for the courtesy—Elrond’s folk did likewise, though sometimes the elves seemed to forget the birds were there at all. She grew to know the dwarves better as well, and liked them for themselves instead of the great service they'd done her four. The smaller one was more grave, more on his dignity, inclined to think before acting (though _acting_ , when an elf once made an unwise comment about dwarves in his hearing, was punitive and swift). The larger by contrast was merrier and swift, as inclined to play as any of the hobbits, and delighting in pranks on any unwitting victim he could find.

Even without speech, it was easy to understand the smaller hawk's thoughts on this habit. When the bigger hawk's tricks turned on him, his retaliation was ruthless. More than once Bilba had to separate the pair, finding them rolling around on the floor to the cheers of the hobbit-birds.

She acquired a fine set of scratches for her troubles. The hawks were appropriately remorseful.

That first time, Elrond gave her injured hands a comprehensive look, and soon after brought a pair of finely wrought leather gauntlets and vambraces to her room. They were sized for her, and by far the most beautiful things Bilba had ever owned.

“I do not doubt the hurts were accidental,” he said, when she protested the lavishness of the gift, “but for the peace of my mind and theirs, wear them if you please! It would comfort me to know that I have done what I can to prevent further injury.”

The hawks, still fluffed up in shame, made muted sounds of agreement and hopped closer to investigate the workmanship. They pretended to be disdainful of elven craft, but she noticed them studying the vambraces later, muttering to each other over the stitching and soft leather.

She had just gotten used to the feel of her new gear when the larger hawk attempted to land on her shoulder one morning. The effort went awry: she was forced to visit the Halls of Healing again, this time on her own behalf. “A few deep scratches,” Hithlain told her, inspecting the gashes on her shoulder and back, “but none of them life-threatening. Easily mended! Though there may be some small scars.”

The smaller hawk had accompanied her; he made a dolorous sound. Drogo pecked him. The larger hawk had stayed behind in her room: he had buried himself under her pillows and was moaning in misery when she’d left.

“Scars are perfectly acceptable, thank you,” Bilba said to lighten their mood. For modesty’s sake she hugged the bloody tatters of her dress to her front, while Hithlain addressed her bare back. It was impossible to forget that the hawks were _male_. They, at least, had a fine sense of propriety even if Prim and Rory were a trifle too young and thoughtless to pay heed to niceties. “All hobbits have them from falling out of trees and into rivers when they are children. Scars are respectable, within reason.”

“I see that hobbits live dangerous lives,” Hithlain said, much amused.

“Very dangerous!” Bilba said. “We are brave and bold and fearless. No oak tree tower is safe from climbing. And no cart-disguised dragon safe from killing, either! Provided we can be home in time for tea, we are very brave, I assure you.”

Hithlain did something to her back. She relaxed as pain faded, leaving pleasant numbness in its wake. The hawk, who was watching carefully, crooned with relief. “If only all my patients were as doughty as you,” Hithlain said gravely. “And as patient. Too many great warriors become fretful children in the sickroom.”

She smiled at Drogo, who flitted to her lap and pressed comfortingly against her hand. “Next time bring real children into the sickroom to watch them, Master Healer,” she said. “And then you will see great warriors stay great!”

Two days later, Elrond brought her a lightweight leather shoulder guard, crafted to the same design as the gauntlet and vambraces had been. This time she didn’t protest the gift. She was still stiff from her hurts, and the good sense of it was obvious to her. Much to her astonishment and embarrassment, the elf-lord kneeled by her chair and put it on her himself over her uninjured shoulder. It was lighter than she thought it would be. When she tried to move her good arm, she found that it only somewhat encumbered by the thing.

The hawks looked on in grudging approval.

“It is known as a spaulder,” Elrond explained, watching her test her range of motion. “A pauldron is more protection than you need, I hope, and you are not accustomed to armor. This should serve you well enough for the time being.”

“It feels like a waste of good work when I’ll no longer need it after they’re turned back,” she said, distressed. It was very beautiful.

Elrond hummed. He smiled at her, rising. “As to that, if it should save you from more injury, I think the work will have been well worth it.”

“Which sounds to me like he’s not feeling very hopeful about a cure at all!” Bilba said to the birds when he had left.

At eleven days gone, she was already past hoping for a _speedy_ cure. Freshly armored and with the dwarves and Drogo flying as honor guard for her progress, she returned to her room to inspect her reflection. In a dress, vambraces, and spaulder, she looked a far cry from a simple hobbit lass. It was a mixture of warlike and proper that would raise eyebrows in the Shire—and ‘warlike’ trumped ‘proper’ entirely, so likely she wasn’t respectable at all!

“And you look quite ridiculous, neither warrior nor hobbit. Not that you'd ever want to be the former, but you're looking less and less like the latter,” she told her reflection severely. “You might as well give up all thoughts of being respectable, and simply accept that you are _not_. For now, at least. But they are such kindly gifts. And beautiful, in their way. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they weren’t meant for war at all! Oh dear, oh dear!”

One of the hawks made an uncomfortable sound. They were perched on the back of a chair, watching her. She put her hands on her hips with only a small wince for the cuts on her back. “As for you, Master Dwarves, I can’t simply keep calling you ‘Master Dwarf the Larger’ and ‘Master Dwarf the Smaller.’” She frowned when the larger hawk made the noise that she had come to recognize as laughter. The smaller hawk whacked him with a wing. “I’d use your real names if I could, but I don’t suppose you have any way of telling me.”

The hawks shifted unhappily. Gandalf and she had already tried several experiments in communication: asking the hawks to point to words on a page, or picking out tiles with letters on them to spell out words. They had learned much about the literacy and short-sightedness of hawks, but nothing at all about the dwarves themselves.

She sighed and seated herself on the edge of her bed, studying them. They stared back at her. “I don’t know the way of dwarf names. Hobbit names wouldn’t suit you at all. Neither of you seems like a ‘Bungo’ or a ‘Mungo,’ which are fine hobbit names, but seem misapplied to dwarves.“ The hawks managed to look appalled, somehow. She chuckled. “Perhaps I’d best give you bird names instead, with my apologies.

“If you would permit, Master Dwarf the Larger, I will call you Quickwing for now. And for you, Master Dwarf the Smaller, I will call you Braveclaw. It is the best I can do, and I think the names suit you both, somehow. Will you allow it?”

The hawks looked at each other and fell to muttering. By and by, they bowed to her: indeed, they seemed rather pleased with their new names.

She rose to curtsey back at them. “Then, Masters Quickwing and Braveclaw, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Bilba Baggins, at your service! When the wizards find a cure for you, you must introduce yourself properly!”


	6. The Counterspell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Wise find a possible solution; history lessons are had; Bilba determines to learn new skills; there is tragedy in Erebor

The days passed. Bilba had time to write two more letters to the Shire and make the acquaintance of Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond. They were terrible scamps, much as her mother had described them. But they remembered Belladonna fondly, and quickly grew fond of her daughter for her own sake.

Like all the elves, they delighted in the hobbit-birds. Unfortunately, the hobbit-birds—and alas, Quickwing—delighted equally in the twins' sense of mischief. As a result of this, Bilba made the acquaintance of Erestor, Elrond’s counselor and librarian. She quailed at his expression of cold rage. By comparison, the legendary Glorfindel was far less intimidating, mostly because he could not speak for laughing.

She could only be grateful the twins soon left on some mysterious errand.

Fourteen more days had passed before Elrond and the wizards summoned her and the birds to the library again. They found Gandalf seated in an open window, smoking ferociously, while Elrond stood by one of the large tables reading a scroll. Of Radagast, there was no sign.

There was none of the triumph or satisfaction present that she would have expected if a cure had been found.

“The difficulty,” Elrond said, when Bilba and the birds had arranged themselves like a council of judgment in the chairs facing them, “is that it should not have happened.”

“Or we should say, rather than _should_ not, _could_ not,” Gandalf said, seeing in her face her opinion of this. “There is much that those of my order can do, but to simply transform someone from one thing to another, utterly unrelated thing, is beyond our power.”

“And yet it happened,” Bilba said doubtfully.

Elrond inclined his head. “There are those in the world who have the gift of changing their shape at will,” he said gravely. “We have spoken of them already. In all the Ages that have passed, it is a gift that has been given only to Men, and those with the blood of Men. Perhaps there is something to consider in that! Long have we elves wondered where hobbits came from, for to our eyes it seems that there are pieces of all the races in your folk. It may be there is skin-changer blood in your people, from some long-forgotten ancestor of Men—but hobbits were not the only ones so transformed, and so as an explanation, it cannot satisfy. I doubt there could be any skin-changer blood in a dwarf. Never have I heard that a union of Men and dwarves could be fruitful."

“There’s never been any _skin-changing_  in hobbits!” Bilba said with certainty.

Gandalf chuckled at this. “Perhaps not. It's likely the dwarves would say the same.” His gaze touched on the hawks, who shook themselves indignantly. “Hobbits know little of dwarves. Even Belladonna only met a handful in her lifetime. Aulë the Smith, who dwarves call Mahal, knew what he was about when he made them. They resist enchantment and are suspicious of it, for Aulë made them strong against the wiles of evil. Even the rings of power could not bring them under the Enemy’s control, for which reason the Enemy hates them almost as much as he hates elves. Like the stone they came from, they are secretive, stubborn, and slow to change. Mountains may fall before a dwarf forgives a grudge, or lets go of what he thinks is his!”

The hawks preened as though they had been paid a great compliment. Bilba was less sure that it was one. She seized what meaning she could out of Gandalf’s words though, and repeated, “ _Resist enchantment_ , you said.”

“Indeed,” said Elrond, removing himself to sit at the table. “It should have been beyond Radagast’s power to transform them, for that is a power that only the Valar possess. He has tried many times since then, but has been unable to reproduce what he did to your friends. And so we had a thought: that the transformation was not Radagast’s doing at all, and that perhaps there was some device present of which we know nothing. Scouts have gone out to search the place where Radagast found them, but they have found nothing."

"That only means there _might_ have been a thing of power. Some animal or orc could have carried it off," Gandalf said.

Elrond conceded the point with an inclination of his head. "Indeed. But since we could find nothing, Gandalf sent messengers to Saruman the White. His domain is the artifacts of power, and he is the most powerful of the wizard order. If any knew of such a device, he would be the one to know of it. But even he had little wisdom to bestow.”

“He suggested Radagast had eaten the wrong kind of mushrooms and dreamt it all, and directed me to stop humoring him,” Gandalf confided.

Elrond’s mouth twitched. “More to the purpose, there are no artifacts known to elf, Man, or wizard that causes its bearer to transform like this. And even if it did, its magic would belong only to the person who held it, not six at one swoop.”

"What about the orcs? Could the orcs have somehow magicked them?" Bilba asked.

Gandalf puffed at his pipe. “Orcs, my dear Bilba, have no talents beyond the sowing great evil and destruction wherever they go."

There was a shadow in Elrond's face that made Bilba shrink a little, and recall her mother’s words about the great sorrow the elf-lord carried. She remembered that she was the only voice her birds had in this council though, and took up her courage to ask, “If not wizards or artifacts or orcs then, who else could have done it?”

Gandalf and Elrond looked at each other. “Who else, indeed?” Elrond murmured. By which Bilba understood that they did not know, or if they did know, it was not something they were prepared to tell her.

She sat silent for a moment, while the birds, Elrond, and Gandalf watched her. “It seems to me,” she said by and by, “that with all your talk of ‘could not’ and ‘should not’ for something that has certainly happened, you are leading up to ‘can not’ or ‘will not.’ I’m afraid I don’t know anything about magic or white wizards or skin-changers—but what I do know is that I can’t possibly return to the Shire and return _birds_ to anxious hobbit parents!”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled, but there was rue in his face as well. “So we come to the crux of the problem. Certainly if we do not have the power to transform hobbits into birds, we do not have the power to transform birds into hobbits. Or dwarves,” he conceded with a nod to them. “But we have not been idle these past eighteen days! There is still one skin-changer in the world that we know. Beorn, he is called, and he lives beyond the Misty Mountains near the Anduin—where your people come from once, though perhaps your histories have forgotten that.”

“Before the Wandering Days, you mean?” Bilba said, surprised. “I didn’t know that!”

“Hobbits have little interest in history beyond family grudges and squabbles, I know! Fortunately for you, there are others with longer memories. Beorn is one of the last of his kind, and there are tales of hobbits passed down in his family. His people and yours were friends, once—or if not friends, at least good neighbors. With the company of Elrond’s sons, Radagast traveled to ask his advice on what can be done to restore your friends. They returned only last night.”

Bilba cast a look at Elrond. “It seems we’ve been an endless burden on you and your household,” she said a little awkwardly, for she was quite overwhelmed by the thought of the inconvenience they were causing the elves. “I’m very sorry!”

He did not smile, but his eyes were kind. “Do not be sorry,” he said gently. “It was an adventure that Elladan and Elrohir much enjoyed. Whether Beorn enjoyed having my sons disrupting his household is another question altogether.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at this.

“More to the point,” Gandalf said, “Beorn had a solution of sorts to our problem.”

His voice was grave. Bilba sat up, feeling the birds around her perk up as well. “‘Of sorts?’” she echoed.

“It is not unheard of for skin-changers to be trapped in their animal forms,” Elrond explained. “After the War of Wrath, more than one skin-changer who answered the Valar’s call was left wandering as an beast, trapped and mute. Some from grief. Some from injury. Their healing was beyond the knowledge of the elves.

“But the kin of those skin-changers begged aid from Oromë the Hunter, who loved them well. Though the Valar had left these lands for Valinor, for their sake he pleaded a cure from his sister Estë the Gentle, who gave them what magic she could. Alas! Some wounds are too deep to mend, and can be healed now only in the Undying Lands. To the skin-changers, Estë's kindness was both a curse and a blessing, for the magic restored all things to what the One had meant to be, before ever the magic of changing had come to them.

"For some skin-changers, it was a fate worse than death. They chose to remain beasts, and were lost forever more from the places of their people. Others chose to take Estë's gift and return to their Man’s form, never again to become a beast. In later years, the children they bore lost the skin-changing ability forever, and so their numbers dwindled.”

“It seems very cruel and unfair!” Bilba cried in quick sympathy for those long-ago heroes. “To do what is just and right, and be punished for it so! It is no happy tale you tell us, Lord Elrond.”

He smiled faintly, but again there was that shadow on his face. “Not all tales end happily, and in life not all virtue is repaid. Great deeds are not performed for reward, but for the sake of doing them—and in casting down the Great Enemy, all Arda was saved. Countless slaves were freed too, and from them rose the Free Folk and heroes of the Second Age. The price paid was high beyond reckoning, but I have not heard any that regretted it.”

Bilba fell dumb, remembering too late that Elrond’s father Eärendil had been one of those who fought in the War of Wrath, and that he had left his young family behind for the sake of saving all. And, now that she thought of it, it was Elrond’s mother Elwing who had been changed into a white bird by Ulmo to save her life from the sons of Fëanor. The two of them had fled to Valinor to plead the Valar’s aid against Morgoth. Neither would ever again see or be seen by their son until he crossed into the Undying Lands. No, Elrond knew well the pain of noble sacrifice.

Into this silence, Gandalf said, “Beorn thinks that though the magic was meant for the skin-changers, there is no reason it should not work for hobbits and dwarves as well. Though it would be a hard choice for a skin-changer to pick a life forever as Man or beast, for a hobbit or a dwarf I don’t think it would be so very hard at all.”

“No, indeed!” Bilba said, recovering a little. Around her, most of the birds voiced their agreement (though Rory made discontented sounds until Drogo pecked him firmly on the head.) “I shouldn’t think so at all! Though being able to fly does seem a fine thing, a diet of seeds and fruits and raw meats can’t be that satisfying. Hobbits belong on hobbit feet, for we pride ourselves on them above everything else but our recipes and our meals. What’s the point of that, I ask you, if we cannot take advantage of either of them?”

Both Gandalf and Elrond smiled at that, and Bilba was pleased to see her nonsense had lifted the shadow from Elrond’s face.

“But you looked grave,” she remembered then. “So I take from that that there is some other price to be paid than simply not changing back into birds.”

Gandalf inclined his head. “It’s a hard magic to make,” he said. “And I’m afraid it must be for you to do.”

“Me? Hobbits have nothing to do with magic and spells!”

“The spell requires no magic of your own," Gandalf said soothingly. "Rather, it requires will, and work. You have talents in both those directions, or else you wouldn’t be here at all! There is a plant that grows in what was once called Greenwood, the great forest that lies to the east of the Misty Mountains. It’s a bramble of some sort, or perhaps a thistle—I don’t know plants as well as Radagast. It has thorns, at any rate, and sweet flowers.”

Elrond turned an open book on the table and pushed it towards Bilba. She saw on its pages a drawing of a black plant, with sharp, long thorns and small white flowers. Like a bramble, it was more shrub than stalk, growing tangled and wild with round, jagged leaves. There were words in Elvish under the drawing, and she drew on the Sindarin that her mother had taught her to read them. _Nienna’s Tears._

“I don’t know this plant,” she admitted.

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. “Likely you would not. These days it grows only in dark places in Mirkwood, though once it flourished in many forests. At any rate, the spell is to make a shroud out of these plants. ‘ _Seven ells long and seven ells wide_ ’ is the measurement, I suppose to account for all of the Valar. On top of which, it’s to be embroidered with the hair of each of the five races.”

“Five?” Bilba was puzzled. “I count four. Elf, dwarf, Man, hobbit—“

“Ah, you don’t know the listing of peoples!” Plainly delighted with the opportunity to educate, Gandalf lifted up his head and declaimed in a solemn voice: 

 

 

 

> _“Learn now the Lore of Living Creatures!_
> 
> _First name the four, the free peoples:_
> 
> _Eldest of all, the elf-children;_
> 
> _Dwarf the delver, dark are his houses;_
> 
> _Ent the earthborn—“_

“Ent?” Bilba interrupted to ask.

“Tree-herders, you call them,” Gandalf said in his usual tones, with a crinkle-eyed smile. “Shepherds. Yavanna's children, who mind and guard the great forests, though much diminished in these later Ages. They're rather like walking trees, and inclined to deep, slow thoughts. They're a mighty folk! Though dwarves would call them mighty _strange_ folk, I daresay. Ents are not overly fond of dwarves. Axes, you know.”

Bilba’s eyes were round with astonishment. The hobbit-birds were chirruping with excitement. “I would dearly love to meet an ent!”

“And so you may! But I am not done with the listing yet. Where was I? Ah, yes.

 

 

 

> _Ent the earthborn, old as mountains;_
> 
> _Man the mortal, master of horses—_

…And then there’s some business about badgers and bears and the rest. I think it does not matter here.”

“There’s no mention of hobbits in that,” Bilba said reprovingly, torn between the excitement of _ents!_ and the faulty catalog of free peoples.

“I’m afraid not. Then again, it was sang first at the beginning of things, before the light of the trees darkened. Hobbits came about in the Second Age, we think, though there’s no certainty in that. Perhaps the list needs changing! But that is not for now. What matters to  _your_ interests, Bilba, is that once all this labor is done, the shroud is to be cast over the afflicted being, and ‘ _what he is will be what he's meant to be,’_ by Beorn’s account.”

“It sounds straightforward enough,” she said doubtfully, “though ‘straightforward’ is nothing like ‘easy,’ by the sound of it. Ent hair! What is ent hair? How does one go about finding that? And how does one make thread from these plants, I wonder? These flowers look less easy than cotton. And what pattern is the embroidery to be? Seven ells is a great deal of cloth. Is a shroud needed for each of them?”

“That, I don’t know,” Gandalf admitted. “Radagast might have some thoughts on Ents. But it will be even less easy than you think. Beorn’s story has more to it than that.”

Elrond stirred. “The person to cast the spell must be the one to harvest and spin and weave the shroud,” he said. The smile was gone altogether, she saw, and there was in his face more of compassion, instead. “And there is also this stricture, ‘ _that she wield no tongue by mouth or tool from the plucking of the first Tear to the casting of the cloth. From love it must be made, and from love used, or all her efforts be wasted.’_ ”

Bilba blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Beorn is a fearsome householder, but a rather cryptic letter-writer,” Gandalf said around his pipe. “It seems that for the time it takes to create the shroud, the person making it can neither talk nor write. And that the person making it must be one who knows and cares for the ones it’s to be cast on. ‘From love it must be made,’ you see. It is not a task to be bought off any craftsman or goodwife.”

“It is a concern for Masters Quickwing and Braveclaw,” Elrond said, turning his gaze to the dwarves. “If we cannot find kin who care for them—“

“Piffle,” Bilba said absent-mindedly, briefly forgetting who she was addressing as she worked through the task Gandalf proposed. “They tried to save Drogo, Ham, Prim, and Rory. They’re family. If love was all it took, for that alone they’d already be dwarves again. But . . . _weaving_.” Even to her own ears she sounded appalled.

“And spinning!” Gandalf reminded.

Bilba was dismayed. “I haven’t learned either of those. And crossing the Misty Mountains! Oh dear, oh dear!”

In her distraction, she quite missed the smile that lit Elrond’s eyes, though the chirruping dwarves didn’t. A pensive silence fell as Bilba sat thinking while birds and wizards and elf-lords watched her, hoping or worrying or pitying as their positions called for.

Eventually, she stirred. “How long do you think it will take?”

“It could be years,” Gandalf admitted.

“Years!”

“There is no knowing. And there is no promise of cure, either. It’s a magic that hasn’t been done in almost two Ages, and never on hobbits or dwarves. It’s a slim chance, Bilba.”

And that was putting it lightly. A slim chance! To be unable to speak and write for perhaps years, to spin thread she didn’t know how to spin to weave a cloth she didn’t know how to weave! Rosemary Hillflats had a loom, and Bilba had looked at it from time to time when she was visiting for tea. She’d watched her Aunt Donnamira spin too, though Tooks used sheep and rabbits for that, not plants. Imagining the work ahead of her, she felt a thrill of panic.

“Is there no other way?” she asked in a small voice.

Gandalf sighed. “We could do nothing. It may be that the magic will wear off if given enough time.”

“But you don’t think it?”

“There is no fathoming why it happened,” Elrond said gently. “So there is no surety that it will release them, either.”

She nodded her understanding while her heart quailed inside her. To do this would mean another journey, this time across the Misty Mountains, to lands and people she had only read of. Belladonna had once traveled to Isengard with Gandalf: the furthest she had ever gone. Never had a hobbit traveled to Mirkwood. To cross the Misty Mountains, with its infestation of orcs and goblins, was no small matter. And what friends would she have on the other side? Who would know or care about Bilba Baggins? It was a great wide world after all, and she was only a very little hobbit.

For a moment, self-pity choked her. This was not the journey she had promised herself to, when she left the Shire over a month ago. Rivendell was lovely, every day one of peace and comfort—but she missed the Shire and Bag End with a sudden acuteness that made her breath catch. She missed her books, and her chairs, and her hearth. She missed her garden, and the tree under which her parents lay. She had hoped that she could take a rest from adventuring.

The silence had grown long. She looked around her. The hobbit-birds’ heads were down, their wings drooping: the quick glance Drogo shot her was shamed. The dwarves were looking at her, their sentiments unreadable, aloof like the hawks they were as though they held themselves apart from her decision.

Blast and be-bother it. She was the daughter of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, and she had a responsibility. Both the Baggins and Took in her were in agreement. She rolled up her useless self-pity and tucked it away, squaring her shoulders though her stomach roiled with uncertainty.

“Lord Elrond,” she said apologetically. “I hate to impose further, but I don’t suppose there’s an elf in your halls who could teach me how to spin?”

 

 

 

  


In the great halls of Erebor, a dwarf prince strode.

The halls of the upper levels were sparsely populated, empty save for the occasional noble dwarf or secretary going about their business. Tapestries hung along the walls, rich color flaming in the warm light of the flameless torches. The thick cloth did something to take the edge off the mountain’s natural chill, but they were not enough to mute the hammer-falls of the prince’s boots.

His stride was quick, his jaw clenched. Startled courtiers caught sight of his forbidding face and scurried out of the way. They pressed back as he passed with his personal guard, only one being foolish enough to try to catch his attention. He was fortunate. The prince ignored him entirely, sweeping past him without a glance. One among the honor guard shook his head at the noble as he passed in grim caution: protests died on the dwarf’s lips.

The small group hastened on.

At the end of the corridor they turned, into a walkway leading to several rooms for council. One was open, a small crowd of dwarves already gathered outside. They drew back as the prince approached. None of them dared to meet his eyes.

He stepped inside with the chief of his guard, who closed the door behind them. Two dwarves stood awaiting him, both of whom he recognized. They bowed at his entrance.

“Tell me,” ordered the prince.

One of the dwarves raised his head. Néru was the king’s oldest councilor, once a friend of King Thrór, a hero of the goblin wars. The face he bared was ashen, and he lifted his hands to show a terribly familiar black bow and throwing dagger. The dagger was covered in black orc blood.

It seemed to the prince that the room spun around him. He did not sway, but his guard captain’s hand closed hard around his arm.

“Three weeks ago, a caravan from Ered Luin came across corpses in the Vale of Anduin,” Néru said, his voice cracked and worn. “They recognized Durin’s symbol on the dagger. Thirty-one dead dwarves. Fifty-five dead orcs. Forty wargs.”

It felt like it took an age for the prince to regain his voice, though it was likely less than a handful of seconds. “My sister-sons?” he asked hoarsely.

“It was their group, there can be no doubt,” said Glóin, son of Gróin, the prince’s cousin. There was grief in his face too, but also grim certainty. He stepped forward to put a small bag onto the table between them: it sagged open, spilling hair beads onto the stone. “The merchants stopped and did what burial they could. I recognize most of these dwarves. Rafr, son of Bafr, is among them.”

“Rafr. He was leading their guard,” the captain rumbled beside his prince. He sounded sick. “He asked to be assigned this journey. His sister in Ered Luin had a little one on the way.”

“Thorin,” Glóin said, leaning his fist on the table to meet the prince’s eyes. His voice was as heavy as stone. “Thorin— Kíli and Fíli weren’t there.”

The silence was long and terrible.

Dwarves were warriors, and knew well the evil of orcs. Prisoners, they enslaved and tortured slowly into insanity and death. Corpses, they ate. No meat was wasted, friend or foe, living or dead. They needed no explanations to imagine the possible fates of Thorin’s sister-sons.

“Thirty-one, you said,” the captain said hoarsely, when Thorin said nothing, locked in horror. “There were forty-five in the party.”

“The merchants reported tracks heading towards the Misty Mountains, A large group, wargs and orcs,” Néru said.

“How many?”

“Less than a hundred. More than thirty.”

“This was no scouting group, but a raiding party,” Thorin said, his deep voice shaking. His gaze was locked on the spill of beads, the bright gleam of metal and gems. “To come out with so many— _three weeks gone_.” At his sides, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“The merchants hurried as quickly as they could when they found Durin’s sigil on the blades and no beads to match them,” Néru said.

“Thorin, they could have escaped in the fray,” Glóin said.

“And not returned to Erebor?”

“If the ponies were killed, and they lost their way—“

“How many dwarves can you muster in an hour?” Thorin asked his captain, unheeding.

The captain grunted, shaking his head as though to brush away cobwebs. “Give me four hours. I’ll give you a hundred dwarves.”

“One hour.”

Glóin and Néru exchanged glances. “Thorin. You’ll need time to tell the king,” Glóin said. “And . . . and Dís—“

It seemed almost as though Thorin staggered. One arm caught on the table; he leaned over it, his head sagging. Long black hair fell to hide his face.

“I’ll tell Thrain,” Néru said after a moment’s stricken silence. His gaze flicked to the captain, who met his gaze with hard, grim eyes. “Dwalin?”

“I’ll get the best trackers I can find,” Dwalin said. “Ask if any from the caravan is willing to come—let them know they’ll be richly rewarded.”

That there was small chance of success at rescue, they didn’t bother to say. The dwarves of Durin’s line were accustomed to grief.

“Mahal grant that they had a quick death,” muttered Glóin.

Nobody disagreed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a short pause on updates after this, as I'll be out of town and possibly beyond internet access (barring phone) over the weekend. Posting will begin again on Monday, though perhaps a little slower in regularity since I'm still editing--and, embarrassingly, writing.


	7. Preparations for Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilba collects skills and supplies; a contumacious king; farewell to Rivendell; things of power and the foreshadowing of an ill-fated remark

It was another three weeks before Bilba left for Mirkwood.

In the interim, Elrond introduced Bilba to Annúnor, who patiently taught her the basics of weaving: the warp, the weft, the stringing of the loom. Another elf, Faerveren, taught her how ways to make thread out of plants—several different messy, complicated, and time-consuming ways, daunting to think about.

“I am unfamiliar with the plant you will use,” Faerveren said, gently rearranging Bilba’s fingers _again_ so her thread would come out less lumpy than before. “I can only teach you the ways there are. You must determine which way is best when you’ve harvested the plant and learned what it can do.”

“I don’t suppose you have a book?” Bilba faltered, watching her thread hump onto the spindle like a snake swallowing a family of fat squirrels: father, mother, septuplets.

Faerveren laughed and promised to give her one before she left.

While Bilba was acquiring the skills she needed, elven craftsmen were reconstructing and redesigning a child's traveling loom for her use, light enough for her to carry in her pack but strong enough to survive a trip over the Misty Mountains. The store rooms of Rivendell held the remnants of one from the First Age: an artifact of Nogrod, made by elves and dwarves, drowned and recovered from the sinking of Nargothrond. The wooden pieces had decayed into dust long ago, but the craftsman Tuiwon had told her loftily that it could be recreated—was he not the finest craftsman in Rivendell?

Even without speech, Quickwing was able to make his opinions of this perfectly clear.

She came across Tuiwon and Quickwing in argument one day, the scattered pieces of the loom spread out on a table over a parchment of its design. The hawk was dragging gears around the paper, redistributing them almost as fast as Tuiwon could replace them.

“I will not move this mechanism,” Tuiwon told Quickwing severely. “There is no sense in what you say. This is where it is meant to be, therefore it is where it will be.”

Quickwing grumbled and jerked a piece of metal out of Tuiwon’s hand to plant it with fussy exactness.

“It will not do,” Tuiwon said, folding his arms.

The noise Quickwing made could only be described as _rude_.

Tuiwon made an irritated sound and said without grace, “Perhaps we will try it and see.”

“Do you understand him?” Bilba asked as she entered, surprised and hopeful. Quickwing welcomed her with a cry, but Tuiwon shook his proud head.

“Well enough to argue with, but not well enough to speak for. He has strong opinions, as all the stone-lords have,” he said, frowning at Quickwing. But there was no dislike in him: less, indeed, than several other of Elrond’s household towards dwarves. “Even transformed he has a cunning mind and some small skill. Though he is misguided on the subject of gears.”

Quickwing made another rude sound, though it seemed as though he laughed as he did.

Soon the loom was done. Tuiwon declared himself much delayed by Quickwing’s interference, but he granted that perhaps the dwarf had had one or two ideas that were not _entirely_ foolish. “If you should return to Imladris as yourself, you may seek me out,” he told Quickwing with a long-suffering air. “Then I may correct you on some of your strange and faulty learnings.”

It was as close to warmth as Tuiwon was capable of, and Quickwing responded with neither _yes_ nor _no_ , but crooned and hooded his eyes instead.

The loom was a cunning thing, small enough to sit easily in Bilba’s pack and able to compress small enough to be strapped to it without awkwardness. Unfolded, it would be large enough to string the shroud in the size required, its breadth compressed into several clever layers to suit her shorter Hobbit arms. It might take eight or nine slides of the shuttle to finish a single row, but what did that matter, if it meant Bilba could do her work? Even after the shroud was started, it could fold again and be carried without tangling the labor already done. Tuiwon had adorned it with elven carvings, but there was a dwarven quality to some that smacked of Quickwing’s interference.

Tuiwon lectured her at length about its care, and she disassembled and reassembled it several times before he was satisfied.

“It will be far too late for you to ask for help once you’ve started on your task,” he said severely. “And I shall not come rushing to your aid if it breaks.”

“No, indeed! I’ll be on the other side of the Misty Mountains, after all! I’m sure you have better things to be doing, and can only say ‘thank you very much’ for what you’ve done so far!”

He sniffed. “If it gives you trouble while you’re in Mirkwood, send word to me. I might be traveling over the mountains and be able to repair it. _If_ I am in the vicinity, that is.”

She could only laugh and hug him, much to his dismay.

Finally, Bilba was ready. Gandalf, she learned with relief, was to travel with her as far as Mirkwood, where she would need to enlist King Thranduil’s aid—or at least his permission, so as to not run afoul of the elven guard there.

“I’m very grateful, no question,” Bilba told Gandalf as they smoked a pipe together in the eastern garden, the day before their departure. “But I don’t wish to take you out of your way.”

“And leave Belladonna Took’s daughter to have an adventure without a tame wizard? She would haunt me from her grave! Besides, I have business in the East now, which I didn’t have before,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes. “Radagast came searching for me for a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with dwarves or hobbits.”

“Something wizardly, no doubt, and the cause of all the bustle hereabouts a few days gone?”

“It might well be!”

She snorted, seeing that he was unwilling to share any further. “Very well. Keep your secrets! You’ll come in handy when it comes to speak to the Elf-King, for I haven’t the slightest notion how one goes about that.”

“Why, as one would address Elrond, although with perhaps a little more consideration for his feelings. Though he may not take the title, Elrond is as much king here as any in a different kingdom.”

“But Thranduil chose to take the title, which seems to say something quite important about him.”

“Ah, but he was a king chosen by his people, which makes all the difference in the world. The title was at their insistence, I believe, since they felt they needed one. Most of the time, it seems to me as though they chose very wisely! And then there are other times, when I think perhaps they did not.”

“If he’s a king and responsible for his people, I suppose he feels about you the same way the rest of the Shire does?” Bilba asked shrewdly.

“And how does the rest of the Shire feel about Mithrandir?” asked Elladan, who happened to chance by at this point with his father and brother.

Bilba smiled up at them in greeting. “Why, as a Disturber of the Peace! And a maker of fireworks, which occasionally makes up for the rest.”

The elves laughed, though they regarded small Bilba with fascination. Even Gandalf chuckled, with not a little pride.

“Then _periannath_ are wiser than we knew,” Elladan observed. “And Mithrandir is fonder of your people than he is of ours, for he has never shown us fireworks.”

“They’re splendid fireworks,” Bilba said. “As for wisdom, I daresay hobbits can be as foolish or as wise as any other people. Still, we can see something when it’s right in front of our noses!” But she bumped her shoulder against Gandalf’s arm and smiled up up at him to show that she, at least, held him in some fondness.

He cleared his throat, attempting to be gruff, but couldn’t entirely suppress his smile. “Thranduil can also be as foolish or as wise as any other elf, but I admit he is not as fond of me as he might be.”

“For more than one reason!” Elrond said dryly.

“He is a friend to no one, save his own people,” Elladan complained.

“My brother is bitter because Thranduil is not swayed by his charm,” Elrohir murmured, seating himself on Bilba’s other side.

“Bitter? No, brother! This is only wisdom. Though it doesn't surprise me that you wouldn't recognize it.”

“I have written a letter to Thranduil to introduce you and ask for his aid on your behalf. Though whether it will do you any good remains to be seen,” Elrond said wryly, ignoring his sons to hand her a sealed missive. “Mithrandir and Aiwendil may convince him better. The king of the Woodland Realm is not overfond of me, either. Elladan speaks truth, whatever his motives. Thranduil cares little for any save his own people.”

“Now there I differ with you, old friend,” Gandalf interjected. “He keeps his thoughts close, but he has a warmer heart than he would betray. The Lady Galadriel thinks well of him, and Lord Celeborn, too.”

“I don’t know anything about Mirkwood, except that it used to be called the Greenwood, once,” Bilba admitted. “I met wood elves in the Bindbole wood once. They seemed much like other elves, except maybe a little wilder.”

“You speak of the wandering companies of Eriador,” Elrond said. “But they are gentler than those of the East, being on the whole in a gentler land. The elves of Mirkwood are a different kind entirely: wilder, and perhaps less wise. Like men in some ways, they burn hotter and harder, being beset by evil. Thranduil’s father Oropher crossed the Misty Mountains with his people for love of this land, and joined the the Silvan elves of the great Greenwood. They chose him as their king. After he died at Dagorlad, they crowned Thranduil in his stead. He is proud and reckless, to my thinking, but careful and cunning, too—he loves his people fiercely and hates his enemies coldly, but is wise enough to prefer peace to war.”

On her shoulder, Braveclaw had started muttering to himself, Drogo listening with much interest. Elrond arched a brow at the dwarf and told him gravely, “Thranduil is a warrior king, which suits the land he rules. He has proven himself against the armies of Morgoth himself: even in enmity, dwarves cannot deny his valor! But valor is not all that goes into making a great king.” To Bilba he added, “I will not tell you the tales of what happened there now— but to say, ‘he was of Doriath,’ is to say, ‘he has no great love of dwarves,’ and for good reason.”

Braveclaw grumbled, but pretended to preen his feathers. Bilba grimaced up at Elrond. “Well, I’ll try to avoid mention of dwarves,” she said. “And if he’s cranky about it, we can always threaten him with Radagast and his ‘ _maybe I did, maybe I didn’t_ ’ talents for changing good folk into canaries!”

The elves and Gandalf laughed.

They set off the following morning: Bilba, the birds, Gandalf, Radagast, and Radagast’s rabbits. Elrond was there to see them off, as were many of the friends that Bilba had made in Rivendell. Her pack was heavier than it was when she’d started. Erestor, Elrond’s chief counsellor, had chosen some books that would help her in her task. In exchange, she had handed him the last of her letters to the Shire. There was no way of knowing whether there’d be a way to send letters back once she had passed the Misty Mountains.

With the assistance of the Rangers that passed infrequently through Rivendell, they had arranged to meet up with a caravan on the East Road. Radagast was proceeding south after leaving them with the caravan, to search for an Ent he knew in the great forest of Fangorn.Gandalf had promised to travel with her as far as Mirkwood.

“And maybe beyond,” he said, clutching his hat as they flew bumpily over the plains towards their meeting point. “There are foul things in those woods. I haven’t traveled in them for—oh, a hundred years, I suppose. The elves do what they can, but when I was there last they were already retreating further into their halls.”

They were early, which was just as well. Radagast would have caused comment as it was, without the hobbit-birds that clung nervously to Bilba’s jacket. He careened off after depositing them while they settled down to wait for a few hours. They wiled the time away pleasantly with stories. At Bilba’s request, Gandalf told them of the elven city of Doriath and its fall, which tale he did great justice to. “Although don’t be thinking I was there, mind!” he cautioned. “I and my fellow wizards are relative latecomers to these shores.”

The hobbits, bird or otherwise, were entranced: Gandalf’s storytelling skills were even better than Belladonna’s. The hawks, unsurprisingly, disliked the part about the Silmaril, one of the cursed gems created by Fëanor, being crafted into the dwarf necklace Nauglamír at the behest of King Thingol. Understandable or not, they had a great deal to say about it—corrections or objections, it was impossible to tell. She could understand why. A story that ended with dwarf greed and their treacherous murder of a great elf king wasn’t likely to please them.

“Of course, the dwarves tell a different version of this tale,” Gandalf acknowledged, his eyes twinkling when Quickwing started trying to eat his hat. “In their version, the elves attempted to cheat them out of their labor to create the Nauglamír. There are few left walking Middle-Earth who could say the truth of it, and one of them is Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.”

A little sadly, he added, “However it was, great evil came, and a noble king was slain. Those who slew Thingol were pursued and slain in wrath. Armies were raised for the sake of vengeance, and the dwarves of Nogrod sacked Doriath. But vengeance begat vengeance, and in turn Beren destroyed the dwarves of Nogrod and reclaimed the Nauglamír for his lady Lúthien. So two great kingdoms fell. Doriath returned to a faded glory under Dior, son of that Beren and Lúthien, only to be brought low by the sons of Fëanor and their oath to reclaim the Silmarils. Like too many of the great things of power, the Silmarils brought death and destruction wherever they went.”

“I suppose I should be thankful I’m just a hobbit and not likely to encounter that sort of thing,” Bilba said philosophically, as Gandalf removed his hat to unhook Quickwing’s claws from the cloth. “I’d certainly rather not, thank you very much! We hobbits aren’t made for grand deeds and epic tragedies. They only make one late for supper.”

Gandalf laughed. Quickwing tumbled to the ground, freed, and was promptly thumped over the head by Braveclaw.

 


	8. Meeting Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilba joins the caravan; a friend (or two) is made; the importance of boots; about the war; pleasure, dwarves, and dwarrowdams.

 

The caravan was made up mostly of dwarves from Ered Luin, whose destination was the great dwarf kingdom of Erebor in the Lonely Mountain. They seemed to know Gandalf by reputation, though they knew him by the name _Tharkûn_. Gandalf introduced Bilba as ‘Master Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,’ as between them, the elves and wizard had agreed that the dangers of the road made a little harmless subterfuge necessary.

What the Rangers had told the dwarves to make them accept a wizard and a hobbit as part of their company, Bilba didn’t know: but the caravan’s leader, Alkar, gave them a skeptical look that took in Bilba’s sword and was unimpressed by it. Before they’d left Rivendell, Elrond’s elf patrols had returned with the weapons and treasure Bilba had buried in the troll cave. One of those swords, Glamdring, was now in Gandalf’s possession. Alkar seemed as unenthused by it and Tharkûn as he was by Bilba.

Whatever his opinion, he gave Bilba and Gandalf a seat on one of their carts, and they soon set off again.

“There’s all sorts of news from travelers over the mountains. Entire caravans gone missing, travelers set on, that sort of thing. Orcs and goblins—you know how it goes,” one of the caravan’s dwarves told them that first day, as he drove the cart. “O’course, passage over the Misty Mountains is always a bit of a scramble, even without getting et.”

“Is that why so many of you are armed?” Bilba asked. She was seated beside him in the front, Braveclaw perched on his now customary place on her shoulder while the others flew ahead or behind as they pleased.

Bofur laughed. Like most of the dwarves he was dark-haired and larger than Bilba, distinguishable from the rest of the hairy group mostly by the ridiculous fleece-lined hat he wore. Unlike the other dwarves, he actually seemed to enjoy Bilba’s company, and treated her without overt suspicion. “We’re _all_ armed, lad. My people are fighters, practically from the teat. My sweetheart here—“ he patted the heavy mattock at his side, “—she’s more useful than that pig-sticker you have there: I can use her to earn my dinner, as well as keep from ending up as dinner.”

“I suppose I could use mine to help make dinner,” Bilba said, peering down at her little sword. “It just seems rather . . . disrespectful, if you know what I mean.”

“Aye, that’s warrior talk. Me, I’m a brawler. Comes from working the mines. You make do with what ye’ve got to hand.” He glanced sidelong at her, curious. “I’ve never met a halfling with a sword.”

“How many have you met?”

He grinned. “Fair enough. You’re only the fourth I’ve seen. You’re a fierce, warlike folk, then?”

“Oh dear me, no!” Bilba grinned back at him, unable to resist the dwarf’s good cheer. “We’re quiet folk, and don’t like to leave the Shire. No battles or wars for us, thank you very much! Six good meals—“

“ _Six_! Where do you fit it all, in that wee body o’ yours?”

“—The company of our friends, a good pipe, and our gardens, that’s what pleases us. The Shire’s a peaceful place, and we’re a peaceful people. The most danger we encounter is when a will’s read out and there’s some confusion about who’s been left the best spoons. Then it’s a case of everyone out for themselves! But the worst I ever heard of was a hat pin jabbed in a fleshy part.” She said wistfully over Bofur’s shout of laughter, “It’s the best place in the world.”

Braveclaw crooned and rubbed his head against her cheek. She sighed and smiled at him in thanks.

“Aye, everybody says that about home,” Bofur said wisely, watching them with interest. “But if home’s the best place to be, what’s your business out here in the mountains, with a wizard? It’s a ways out from the Shire.”

They had concocted a story between them, Gandalf and Elrond and herself, to account for her presence while hiding the truth about the birds. Gandalf and Elrond had urged it, telling Bilba that dwarves were deeply suspicious of magic, created so by their Maker. Besides, until they knew who or what cast the spell on the birds, it could be there was an unknown enemy somewhere out there. Better to keep their secrets secret.

“Oh, he’s an old friend of us hobbits,” Bilba said truthfully enough. “I’m traveling with him to help with the birds, you see. They’re friends of his as well, and were curious to learn more about how we wingless folk live. Gandalf is very protective of them, but he doesn’t know the first thing about animals. Hobbits—not _halflings_ , if you please!—are better acquainted with things of nature, so he’s hired me to help care for them as far as the Anduin.”

As though answering to a cue, Primula came zipping back at that moment to hover in front of her. Bilba obligingly opened the special flask that the elves had given her. It had a special spout for Primula’s long beak and tongue, and inside was sugared water to fuel her tiny body when there were no flowers nearby.

Bofur watched raptly as Primula drank her fill, and breathed a sigh when she zipped off again to play. “It’s like a living jewel,” he said with some awe.

“Primula? She’s a hummingbird. The males are usually more brightly colored than the females, but she’s never been one to follow the accepted mode. Have you never seen a hummingbird before?”

“We dwarves don’t pay much attention to the outside world. Birds an’ beasts an’ greens an’ such. They’re nothin’ to do with us. The things we love are stone an’ metal, and the things we make with our own hands.” His eyes twinkled down at her. “It’s too bad you’re not going as far as Erebor. If ye want to see _real_ beauty, it’s there, in th’ last great kingdom o’ the dwarves.”

Braveclaw crooned deep in his throat, lifting his head attentively. “Is that where you’re from?” Bilba asked.

“Aye, though I haven’t been there in years.”

“Why not?”

“Traveling. All around Arda, I’ve been.” He shoved back his hat a bit to scratch at his brow. “Far as the Orocarni in the east, and Ered Luin, o’course. I’ve seen some strange things in my time! Stranger than a halfling with a sword.”

“Don’t take me as normal for my _hobbit_ people, please!” Bilba said hastily. “I have wandering feet, and I came by them honestly as a Took from my mother’s side. Only Tooks are wild enough to go adventuring. It’s not at all respectable. I suppose it’s different for dwarves.”

Bofur grinned. “Nay. We’re mostly homebodies as well. If I’d my way, I’d have a toy shop in the great markets of Erebor, and come home every night to my family and craft. My brother Bombur and his dam are blessed with young ‘uns. It’s a happy house. None of this ‘traveling’ business. It doesn’t suit me.”

Curious, Bilba asked, “Then why do it?”

Bofur nodded to the rider before them. Bilba had noticed him before: he was a terrifying figure with a wild, shaggy beard of black and silver. What looked like a piece of an axe was embedded in his skull. “Bifur there, he’s my cousin,” he said. “We grew up together. Fought in the War together too, all those years ago—that’s where he got that bit o’ decoration he’s wearing, defending the young prince.

“Somehow in all the mess after, he lost his wits a bit. What with bandages all over him and them having to shear most of his hair off to treat ‘im, he got carted away by some of Linnar’s Folk, them thinking he was one of their own and him not being able to tell ‘em different, see. I went looking for ’im. I only caught up with him a little while ago. He still doesn’t remember everything yet, but I’m betting if he sees Erebor again, it’ll bring it all back.”

Bilba looked from him to his cousin. His hair was a messy mane, long and thick, well past his shoulders. There was no sign of _shearing_. “How long did you look for him?”

“Well, I left on a Monday, and today’s Thursday—“ Bofur screwed up his face, considering. “So . . . off and on, forty years? Give or take.”

“Forty _years_!”

“Oh, aye, but what else was I supposed to do? He disappeared wearing my favorite boots, and I wanted them back.”

He lapsed into comfortable silence, seemingly unaffected by the greatness of sacrifice, loyalty, and love that lay unspoken under the bare bones of his tale. Braveclaw, who had made a strangled sound halfway through the story,hopped down to the bench and stared at him.

“Well!” Bilba said at last, her poor heart wrung with sympathy and awe. “Gandalf has been telling us sad tales about things of power all morning, but I’m glad to see that at least one of Middle-Earth’s great heroes has a hope of a happy ending! I’ll never look at boots the same way again!”

Bofur looked at her, blinked, and then gave a great shout of laughter.

It was a ten day journey over the High Pass, and while the most of the dwarves kept to themselves, Bilba was pleased to find she was making more than one friend in the large company. Bofur was the first and best, of course. Still skeptical of the birds, he nonetheless watched them with interest, laughing at their antics and speaking to them as though they were thinking creatures rather than beasts. With Bofur serving as translator, Bifur slowly began speaking to Bilba as well in the secret language of his people. The axe in his head left him incapable of speaking Westron, though he was able to understand it just fine. Once she knew that, she directed her responses to him instead of Bofur, just like Bofur spoke directly to the birds. Bofur’s smile was grateful, and the courtesy seemed to relax Bifur more as well.

He even unbent enough to tell her a bit about the great Battle of Azanulbizar, where he had received his terrible injury. It was the last battle of a seven-year war between the dwarves and the goblins of the Misty Mountains.

“The dead were beyond counting,” Bofur said, his gaze distant. “They say we won, but the cost was so high you’d hardly know it. That’s where Bifur fell, defending Prince Frerin. In that one day, we lost King Thrór, Prince Frerin, Lord Nain, Lord Fundin, and Lord Vili. Most of the line of Durin, in fact. We almost lost Dáin as well. The enemy’s chieftain, Azog, was a great white goblin—smarter and more powerful, than any goblin we’d ever fought. He’d sworn to destroy the line of Durin. If it wasn’t for Prince Thorin and Dáin killing him and rallying the troops to drive them back, it would’ve been a complete disaster. Even more of my people would’ve met their ends that day. As it was, we lost half the armies from all seven clans that day.”

He fell silent, puffing meditatively on his pipe.

“That sounds terrible,” Bilba said after a long moment, wrung by sympathy and horror.

Bifur said something. Bofur grinned in response. “Bifur tells me to tell you it wasn’t all bad. The battles were terrible, aye, but the in-between times were something like. Bifur and I were under Lord Vili’s command, the husband of Princess Dís, you know. The best dwarf to ever walk the earth—and a complete scamp, for all he could pretend to be as nobby as one of Durin’s own. The songs he taught us! Here, ever heard this one about the blacksmith and the Man’s daughter?”

It transpiring that under Lord Vili’s tutelage, Bifur and Bofur had learned a seemingly endless repertoire of obscene songs, Bilba spent the next few hours with her face bright red. Unsurprisingly, after that the hawks decided they liked the cousins. They often rode on the dwarves' shoulders as they traveled.

With Bofur and Bifur speaking to her, some of the others started to address her as well. They had a great many questions about _halflings_ , most of them never having met one. She was pleased to correct their misunderstandings, (“Is it true halflings sprout from dirt like potatoes?” “No!”) although some of them quite baffled her (“Is it true that halflings can turn silver into mithril?” “I beg your pardon?”) and after a while she began to grow rather tired of it, beginning to wish she could avoid their curiosity altogether.

Learning that she had no idea how to use her sword, a couple of the younger ones started trying to teach her, with little success. Dwarves were enthusiastic but not patient teachers. It was as well they tried. They ran into trouble only once, when a wolf pack descended on them in the middle of the night. Her terrified and clumsy sword play did more damage by accident than intent, but she drove off a wolf about to kill a dwarf. Gandalf was the more useful: his staff gave off a light almost like the sun, and with its brightness to illuminate the scene, the dwarves made short work of the pack.

There was much slapping of backs afterwards, and grudging approval of the birds. The birds were night-blind, they’d discovered in Rivendell, but with Gandalf’s light they had bravely done a great deal of damage to wolf eyes and distracted several long enough for them to be killed.

Though she hadn’t done her part defending the cavern from any motive save unthinking panic and helping her friends, she found that her courage had won her some respect in the caravan. That night by the campfire, they called on her for the first time to tell a tale. Gandalf had been in great demand as a storyteller during the previous nights, and she understood that it was a sign of acceptance that she was asked as well. It was plain though, that they had little hope for her tales:perhaps they expected dull stories about lost cows and farmers?

“Well!” Bilba said to herself, when she realized this. “Tales of great tragedy and war may not be a hobbit’s usual fare, but merriment is our stock and trade:it’s time to show our quality, my girl! We mustn’t let the Shire down!”

On her mettle, she threw herself into her storytelling with all the skill at her disposal. Between tales of Belladonna and her many adventurous Took cousins and ancestors, she soon found herself in as much demand by the campfires as Gandalf.

“You’ve a knack for telling ‘em, lad,” Bofur told her one night by the fire, Braveclaw on her shoulder and Quickwing on his. “O’course they want to hear ‘em. Besides, yer leaving us at the river. We’ve got ta hear ‘em now, since we won’t have th’ chance later.”

She chuckled. Her tale of the night had been the absurd story of her grandfather, the Old Took, and his long-ago encounter with barrow-wights, a desperate goat, and a strange sprite called Tom Bombadil. The dwarves had greatly enjoyed it, and were currently setting Bombadil’s rhyme to music on the spot. “My mother was the storyteller,” she said, feeling the sharp ache of loss again, though it was gentler than it had been before Rivendell eased it. “I suppose I picked up a trick or two from her.”

Bofur grinned. “Master Baggins Silvertongue, if ye’ve a mind to picking up a title like all the great heroes,” he suggested. “You’ll join an impressive company. Durin the Deathless, Thráin the Redeemer, Dain Ironfoot, Thorin Oakenshield, Celebrimbor the Ringforger—“

“Celebrimbor is an elven name,” Bilba accused.

“Ah, well.” He puffed out a smoke ring and looked pitying. “It weren’t his fault he was born an elf, poor sod.”

She laughed at him. Across the fire, Harvi and Korug were making a hash of, _Hey! Come merry dol! Derry dol! My darling!_ “I don’t think dwarves are naturally ‘ _derry dol my darling_ ’-ers,” she confided.

He laughed. “You don’t know enough about dwarves, then. If ye’ve an interest in sharing my bedroll tonight, I can show you how ‘derry dol’ we can be, my darlin’.”

It took a second for the words to register. She blinked at him when they did. Uncertainly, she said, “Are you—“ Dimly, she registered that Braveclaw and Quickwing were squawking angrily. She squeaked. “Are you _propositioning_ me?”

“Oh, aye,” he said cheerfully, as though he’d just been asking her opinion of the weather. “A friendly tup between brothers of th’ road. Nothing more than that.” He studied her, his eyes keen but kindly. “Unless that’s something hobbits don’t do?”

She squeaked again. “No!” she managed at last, the flush spreading hot and red under her skin. “I mean, we do— that is, there's mischief we get up to when we’re ‘tweens, but not—oh dear, oh dear.”

“Not with dwarves?”

“No! Not _not_ with dwarves, if you take my meaning! Oh dear,” she sputtered, while Bofur chuckled. Despite her shock it was a little tempting, she thought ruefully. It was! Bofur was kind and merry, and in the past few days she’d grown quite accustomed to his size and his boots and the _enthusiasm_ of hair that all dwarves sported. She couldn’t deny some curiosity, too. She’d had her light-hearted fumblings in the pastures of the Shire, just like any other ‘tween. Dwarves, she guessed, were likely to be very different from hobbits. Certainly they were more intense!

But still, she was not as tempted as all that, and besides, she was not the lad that he thought her. She had the vague notion that it wouldn’t be quite fair to him; like promising a hobbit a dozen tomatoes, but giving him radishes instead. Both vegetables, and both very tasty, to be sure: but after all, radishes were not tomatoes, no matter how hard you might wish they were.

“Don’t be frettin’ yourself,” Bofur said, patting her on her unburdened shoulder, though Braveclaw hissed and Quickwing sprang off Bofur’s shoulder to huddle protectively against her leg. “It was simply an offer, and if the answer’s _no_ , that’s all there is to it. I’m not heart-wrung. So long as you’re not taking offense, that is. I don’t know how hobbits feel about these things.”

“No, indeed! None taken! We hobbits don’t do _that_ , except for courtship and marriage once we reach our adulthood— but no offense taken!” she said hastily, relieved to be let off the hook so easily. “Unless you mean about us both being . . . being the type that wears trousers, rather than skirts?”

“Hammer an’ stones ’twixt the legs, aye. There’s that blush again! There’s some places where Men don’t hold for that kind of thing, but dwarves don’t care for that. If it bothers ye, I’m sorry for it. My folk take their bed pleasures where they see fit, and it never means anything! Unless it’s a case of _love_ , well now— but that’s dwarves business, and I shouldn’t be talkin’ about tha’.”

Her ears still hot, Bilba seized on the moment to disavow any offense whatsoever. “We call them ‘confirmed bachelors’ in the Shire,” she admitted. “But I’m not, myself. That is . . . not, well. Are you— do you prefer— oh dear,” she sighed, while Bofur snickered.

“Most of us can go either road,” he said, apparently less encumbered by shyness than she was. “I’m not fussy myself, which is handy enough. Traveling as I do, well. There are few dams among us. It’s an honor to win one’s favor. It'd be more'n my hair's worth to approach one o' them without all the doings of real courtship! O’course, our dams don’t go on the road overmuch, unless there’s great need. They’re carefully guarded treasures, locked up safe in our mountains where nothing can get to ‘em.”

“That sounds terrible for the, the _dams_ ,” she said, a little dismayed.

“Aye, so it might sound to someone not a dwarf,” he admitted, after giving it some consideration. “A proper dam is the fiercest warrior you’ll ever see. There aren’t many dwarves brave enough to anger one. Maybe it’s more truthful to say we protect the other races from ever being exposed to one, see? You’d ‘ave better luck fightin’ a dragon with a fryin’ pan than go up against an angry dwarrowdam.” He pulled thoughtfully at his mustache. "Not a gentle-tempered lot, by an' large."

It was impossible to still feel awkward when faced with such ridiculousness. Bilba laughed, at ease in her friend’s company again. “I _am_ sorry,” she said, sincerely regretful. “It was a flattering offer.”

“Aye, it was at that,” he said, much struck. “Considerin’ my fine mustaches and yer poor smooth face, like a wee baby’s bottom—“

“I _beg_ your pardon!” she gasped, torn between laughter and outrage. “I’ll have you know that hobbits—always excepting Stoors—do not grow beards!”

“—But yer not _entirely_ bad-looking, and there’s a lot to be said for polishing the hammer with someone you can laugh with. No harm done!”

“No, indeed! Thank you very much!”

 


	9. Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves are plagued by a princess; Thorin has a dream; Bilba learns the joys of spelunking; goblins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this on Thursday, and then didn't because I . . . forgot. Oops. 
> 
> Next installment on Monday!

Death.

Five and a half weeks gone, the presence of it was still writ large around the road for those with eyes and experience to see. The earth sang of it. Nearby stone wailed with it.

The weight of his dead bowed Thorin's spine. 

The dwarves of the caravan had done their best by the traditions of the road, moving the corpses of wargs and orcs far enough away that carrion-eaters wouldn’t bother other travelers. There was little left of them now. The dwarf dead they had burned: too far from deep stone to bury the properly, unwilling to commit them to dirt or leave them where beasts and birds could pick at them. But their best efforts could not have erased all sign. Nor would they have tried to. There were stains. Scuffs. Scars in the ground. Mute witness that here, dwarves had stood: here, dwarves had died.

Thorin stood in the middle of what had been their battlefield, and saw in his mind how the attack had happened. It was easy enough to see. Scouts overwhelmed before they could give word. Hills behind which the orcs would have hidden, until they flowed like a vile avalanche on the defenders beneath them. There was no obviously defensible position nearby. His people had done well, killing as many as they had, and yet.

And yet.

Around him, many of the hundred he brought were culling the vicinity with more thoroughness than the merchants had been able to afford. Already they had found two more of the missing dwarves, and a handful of orcs who had died after staggering away from the fight. The trail was clear. If there were prisoners, they were taken towards the Misty Mountains.

Five, almost six weeks gone. Hope was dead. All that remained was the search for knowledge. And vengeance.

Beside him, Dís stood as carved stone, her eyes sharp as they surveyed the scene. Her armor was the match of his, dark blue and silver, her hair bound in Durin’s beads: but where she was used to keep the rest of her hair loose, the small, vicious braids of vengeance and quest ran like snakes down her back instead. She had not spoken a single word since she caught up with them a week ago, refusing to be left behind.

Dwalin stumped towards them, frowning. “Not much more to find here,” he said. “We’re building a pyre for the two we’ve found. Not much left to burn hereabouts. It'll take a while. What next?”

“We follow the tracks,” Thorin said.

“How far?”

They both looked at Dís. She ignored them.

“Until we’re certain,” Thorin said. Certain that his sister’s sons were dead. He prayed for that certainty. 

What Dís was praying for, he couldn’t tell. She was unreadable to him as she had only been once before, when her husband, Víli, had fallen in Azanulbizar with their brother Frerin and their grandfather Thrór. Dáin and Thorin had avenged them on Azog, the great white orc, but vengeance did not bring back the dead. Back then, her grief had almost taken her from him. Only her sons had kept her in the land of the living, bringing her back bit by bit from her longing for the Halls of Waiting.

Now they were gone. Even through his own sorrow, Thorin felt the blackness of fear for his sister.

Dwalin nodded without further comment. He stumped off to handle the preparation of the graves, leaving Thorin to the bubble of silence that enclosed Dís. None of the other guard came near them, their normal comfort with Thorin dampened by their awe of Dís and respect for their grief.

“We’ll continue onwards towards the mountains,” he said, looking out over the field. “You’ll return to Erebor.”

Dís said nothing.

“I will leave some of the guard with you to serve as your escort. There may be tracks. If the lads escaped, they’ll be making their way back home. They’ll be ill-equipped. Maybe injured. Your squad can search the ways back and try to pick up a scent.”

Still nothing.

Thorin reached out and gripped her arm, feeling the armor cold and unyielding under his hand. “ _Namadith_ —“

“No,” Dís said, her voice remote. “You will not leave me behind. They are my sons. I am their mother. Mahal himself will not stand in my way.”

She walked away from him without waiting for answer. He looked after her, his stomach twisting.

“You talked to her?” Dwalin asked, returning. He squinted when Thorin didn't immediately answer, and then rolled his eyes. "Grand."

Thorin sighed. “She rides with us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The stink of a battlefield was unmistakeable from anything else, a mix of thick blood, excrement, vomit, and smoke. He recognized it before he opened his eyes to see the hill he stood on, soft underfoot. It was a body he stood on:   dwarf or orc, there was no knowing. There was no clear ground to walk on. The bodies covered the ground, mud and gore making them almost indistinguishable from each other. In the near distance he could hear screams and sobs from the dying and wounded, and he looked around himself, sick with foreknowledge._

_Azanulbizar._

_His grandfather’s head gaped at him from beside his boot. He stared down at it, choked by love, by shock, and by hate. Thrór, his king. His grandfather. If not for Thrór, his people would not be dead all around him. If not for Thrór, his brother would still be alive. If not for Thrór—_

_He didn’t have his oak shield yet. It was somewhere, buried underneath all the bodies. Azog was coming, he knew. If he raised his gaze he would be just in time to watch Fundin fall to arrows. Any moment now he would charge Azog and be batted aside like a troublesome fly. He would watch his people being hewn down around him, while the blaze of Durin’s Bane filled the open gates of Khazâd-Dum—_

_“Oh dear,” said a voice. “This can’t possibly be right.”_

_The voice was utterly unexpected. Even though it was dismayed, there was still a clarity and ring to it that was neither dwarf nor orc. Startled, he looked up and found everything had frozen. Even sound had stilled, leaving ringing silence in its wake._

_“I must be trespassing,” said the voice, a little shakily. He couldn’t see who owned it, but he felt a presence beside him: small, warm. His exhausted body leaned, yearning towards it like iron towards a lodestone. “I can’t say I like your decorating choices. Is it like this all the time?”_

_“No,” he said. His own voice, like the rest of him, was battle-weary, ragged from shouting. “It will get worse in a moment.”_

_“Worse?” The voice was appalled._

_“Yes. Our greatest defeat and victory in one. Azanulbizar."_

_"I know that name. Now, how do I know that name?"_

_"It was the last battle between our people and the orcs. There—“ he pointed with his sword, where Durin’s Bane was a threat and a horror just out of sight. “Those are the gates to Moria. And that—“_

_Azog was standing tall on a hill of bodies, a sneer twisting his face and baring sharp teeth. Thorin found himself suddenly bereft of words, shaking with hatred._

_“Well!” said the voice. “It would be dreadfully rude to comment on his appearance, especially if he’s a friend of yours. But it seems a bit silly to be going about without so much as a shirt or proper trousers! Perhaps customs are different in these parts.”_

_The voice sounded doubtful. Thorin felt a sudden twist of hilarity, a complicated, wretched thing that rose like a bramble through his chest and choked him. He made a sound. A small hand patted him anxiously on the arm._

_“You don’t seem well. Would you like to sit down? I have a— be-bother it, where did I put my handkerchief? I packed a great many, of course, because one never knows when they might be useful. And they gave me so many. They were quite nice about it! Although I think they were laughing to themselves in that way they have, you know. I suppose, being what they are, they don't really have a need for them. I don't think I saw a single one so much as sneeze, which is really too bad for them, come to think of it. There's nothing quite so satisfying as a good sneeze, sometimes.” The voice was babbling. Misplaced absurdity against such a backdrop._

_Handkerchiefs._

_Another sound wrenched out of him, but this one could almost be a laugh. His shoulders shook with it. And then again. The next one came out freer, almost wondering. It seemed to him like the ugliness of Azanulbizar faded a little, the fetid stench easing to be replaced by something fresher, the bodies blurring in his eyes._

_The tight clench of his chest began to ease to a softer, less tangled grief._

_“A handkerchief!” he said when he could speak again, addressing that baffled presence of worry and confused dignity beside him. “If that was all it took to ease my heart, then I would replace all the treasure of my people with them.”_

_“Please do not be belittling the importance of a convenient handkerchief,” huffed the voice. “It’s certainly more useful than treasure! But you seem to be feeling a little better, so I won’t force mine on you, if you don’t want it.”_

_“I will accept it with thanks if you can find it,” Thorin said, bowing his head. He felt rather than saw a piece of fabric dabbing gently at his cheeks, and was too exhausted for pride to deny that kindness. He was weeping, he discovered, and was unsurprised by that. He was not the only dwarf to have wept at Azanulbizar, even as he fought. “I did not mean to belittle your kindness.”_

_There was no answer to that beyond a meditative hum. Azanulbizar was fading still around them, though in fitful jerks and starts. He closed his eyes: the sight made him dizzy. With disconcerting suddenness, he suddenly realized that this was a dream, just as he knew the presence he’d been talking to wasn’t a dream._

_“I wish I could help,” said the voice, helplessly. “What can I do?”_

_He gripped at the fingers touching him, feeling cool skin beneath his. In the waking world, he would never ask, but in this one—_

_“Stay with me,” he pleaded, and woke up._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They were two days from the end of their journey, and the caravan had stopped for the afternoon meal. Gandalf was off attempting to barter with one of the merchants for some of the Old Toby being delivered to Erebor. For a change, Bilba was on her own. Bofur and Bifur were off helping to repair one of the wagons, which had cracked an axle over the last bumpy patch. Given her temporary solitude, she had ventured a little out of the way in order to take off her waistcoat and shirt, and adjust her breast bindings. They were slipping. It was not an activity that needed an audience.

Birds landing on her from out of nowhere was an unpleasant surprise.

She shrieked and jumped up, clutching her shirt to her front. Wings thrashed as the hobbit-birds flailed back into the air. The hawks, more wary of the injury their talons could cause, had landed on a nearby branch. They rather pointedly turned around to face away from her: if they could have, they would have been blushing.

“Of all the cheek!” she exclaimed at them, hastily wriggling back into the shirt.

The hobbit-birds trilled, spiraling around her in agitation. Drogo landed on her head again to pull at her hair. Rory and Hamfast soon joined him. With a squeak, she popped her waistcoat on and batted them away. “Yes yes, it’s plain enough! Only let me finish getting dressed and I’ll follow you. Where is Prim?”

Drogo settled onto her cast-off vambraces and wobbled his head as though rolling his eyes.

“Oh dear,” said Bilba.

They led her away from the camp to a narrow ledge in the mountain, where a narrow cave mouth opened beyond a jut of rock. The birds fluttered in and out, landing on her from time to time to tug her towards the entrance. She stared at it with dismay. “And she went in here?”

The hawks made an equally discomfited sound. Quickwing swooped into the tunnel, only to falter a further in where the light began to fade. He turned back with a mournful cry.

“Right,” she sighed, buckling her little sword and spaulder on. “I see it’s up to me! Whatever can she have been thinking of? You’ll all stay out here, if you please! There’s no use in all of us being lost, and you’ve none of you good eyes at night. Pray go back to Gandalf and tell him where I’ve gone. I trust you to protect the others!” she told Quickwing and Braveclaw, who seemed most inclined to see sense. “There are too many predators about for little hobbits, much less hobbit-birds!”

That decided to her satisfaction (though the birds continued to quarrel loudly with her) she chopped a green branch off a low, prickly shrub, and scraped bits of sap off the surrounding trees to plaster its head. After that, it was a matter of a several minutes to set it alight. At last, however, there was nothing more to delay her. Armed now with sword and torch, full of foreboding, she set her shoulders and tramped forth to find her young friend.

Behind her, the birds argued for another long moment before Drogo swooped after her. His weight was negligible on the straps of the spaulder. Clinging as he was to its back, she could not detect him. Quickwing herded the other hobbits away, back to the caravan.

On a high branch above, Braveclaw hunkered down to wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bilba was not fond of caves.

To be truthful, this was the first one she’d ever been in. But there was something naturally— _wrong_ about it. The walls and floor were stone and dirt, uneven underfoot. The smell was foul, like dust and mildew, with a hint of something long dead decaying nearby.

“Not pleasant at all,” she said to herself, finding her way along the long tunnel, still sunlit enough that the torch was unnecessary. “And who knows what might be living in these places? Oh dear, I never thought to say this, but I wish I were a dwarf. Prim! Primula Brandybuck! Where have you gotten to? Prim!”

The caves bounced her voice back to her so that it sounded as though there were a dozen Bilba Bagginses wandering about. It was all rather distressing.

“I suppose,” she said, finding herself next to a cleft in the rock wall that looked positively ominous in comparison to the main tunnel, “I suppose that if I’m to find Prim I should try to think like her. Here before me is a perfectly fine tunnel, wide and straight, still somewhat lit by sunlight and therefore as safe as it’s possible to be under these circumstances. Whereas here next to me is a— a hole, I suppose it is. A dirty, nasty crack in the wall, positively _promising_ all sorts of horrid things at the end of it. Things with teeth, I daresay, or fangs, or maybe even slithery things with too many legs or not enough. Oh dear!”

She sighed. “If I were Bilba Baggins, I would say, _that’s quite enough of that!_  and turn right around. If I were Primula Brandybuck though, I would imagine adventure lies down the darker path, and never mind that I couldn’t see a thing. Why should it matter that my last adventure ended poorly? I haven't the simple Hobbit sense to come out of the rain!" She sighed again more heavily, making sure that any unknown hearers would perfectly understand the many great burdens she bore on her shoulders. "I suppose there’s no help for it.

“Be brave, my girl! Here we go! Ugh, these are bones underfoot. Don’t look at them, it’ll do you no good. I wonder what they were? I wonder what killed them? Ugh. No. Think of more pleasant things! How I miss the Shire. And Bag-End! I wonder how my roses are doing? No, that isn’t helping at all. What was it the elves at Rivendell sang? Tra-la-la-lally? I wonder what they would sing if they saw me now? Let me think, now:

_O! What are you thinking,_

_You hobbit spelunking,_

_Just who you are seeking,_

_With all this cave creeping?_

_O! Tra-la-la-lally_

_Come back to the valley!_

“Silly elves.

"Prim! Can you hear me?! Oh dear. There’s no sign of her yet, and this is going on much longer than I hoped it would. I think those are mushrooms over there. Unpleasant, poisonous looking things. This tunnel is getting narrower and narrower. Now what to do:I shall lose buttons at this rate. There’s no hope for it, I’ll have to go sideways.”

So saying, she turned to try and squash herself through a narrow crevice at the end of the tunnel. Here however, she was foiled, for there was a sudden _squawk!_ and with a flutter of wings, Drogo popped up out of nowhere to scramble onto her head.

For all her morbid speculation about things with teeth and claws, Bilba was not prepared for this sort of surprise.

She screamed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere a little deeper in the mountain, a group of goblins lifted their heads. “Oi,” one said. He thumped his neighbor with the back of his hand. “You hear dat?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A year off my life!” Bilba shrieked, controlling the urge to shake her cousin. “You’ve taken a year off my life! As though this adventure wasn’t bad enough with magic and wizards and— and _caves_ , of all things! You shall make all the hair on my feet  _fall right off_!”

He peeped at her from between her hands, shoving his head through the cage of her fingers to stare at her dolefully. Maddening. Maddening! She stomped her foot to demonstrate the aforementioned shedding, with no success, and closed her eyes before counting (quite pointedly) to ten.

Another sad peep. Drogo was really very sorry.

No matter how she might wish otherwise, Bilba was not one to stay angry for long. With a sigh, she moved her little cousin to her shoulder before reluctantly venturing onwards. The crack had narrowed down of her to a tight fit, barely wide enough for her to turn her head. It was just as well she’d lost weight on this journey, what with the bare pittance of three meals a day. There would have been no room to pass for a fully-fed, healthy hobbit with the proper meat on her bones! For the first time, she found herself grateful for her reduced circumstances.

Emerging from the crack was like popping a cork from a bottle. One moment she was wedged tight, wondering in alarm if she would be stuck there forever, and the next she was flying out of it at speed, leaving several waistcoat buttons behind.

“Oh, _confusticate_ all caves!” she cried, hearing them ping across rock. She liked those buttons. They'd belonged to Belladonna.

In her alarm over Drogo, she had accidentally hurled her torch ahead of her through the crack. Now that she was through, it illuminated the scene for her quite bravely, though she derived little comfort from it. She discovered herself in an alcove that opened to the right, bounded on either side by low walls. At the far end, she could sense a vast chamber opening up, and could hear the quiet murmur of water. Recalling her buttons, she ran her torch across the ground, hoping to catch sight of them. One she found nestled right at her foot. The second she found sparkling against the far wall of the alcove, and the third—

“Prim!” she cried with relief.

Her cousin was a ball of feathers on the ground near the alcove entrance, fluffed into a ball of feathers with her eyes squeezed shut. It was only because of the gleam of gold next to her that Bilba noticed her at all. For a moment Bilba was struck with horror, convinced Primula was dead. She dropped to her knees beside her. "Prim!" she cried again in dismay, and then realized the hummingbird body was moving, rhythmically rocking to either its heartbeat or distress.

Relief gave way to pity. Bilba gathered her up with one careful hand. Drogo warbled his distress and hopped down to press against his friend.

“There you are, Prim,” she said gently. She fumbled with the sugar water flask and dampened her cousin’s beak with a drop. “Drink up. If ever there was a hobbit for getting into trouble! You might as well be a Took!”

Drogo chirped worriedly at her. It was impossible to tell in this wavering light whether Primula was injured by more than hunger and fear. After a few worrying moments of immobility however, Primula stirred enough for her long, thin hummingbird tongue to flick out. She took a sip. Then another. With each drink, life seemed to pour back into her. Soon her eyes were open, and then her feathers settled. At last, she was well enough to perch on Bilba’s thumb and drink without help.

“And what kind of hobbit puts herself out of reach of food?” Bilba scolded gently, when Primula was finished drinking.

Prim made the  _tsk tsk_ -ing sound that served as hummingbird song, and fluffed into a meek ball of feathers. Accepting this as the apology she deserved, Bilba put away the bag and moved the birds to her shoulders.

Making to rise, she remembered the reflection of metal that had attracted her attention to begin with. Her button! She looked down to collect it, and found instead of a button a ring of simple gold. 

Curious.

“Now, how does a thing like this end up here?” she wondered of Drogo. “Not so bad for a day’s work: two treasures in one go! What adventures we’re having!”

With a small chuckle that was more to comfort her companions than born of real amusement, she plucked up her new find and popped it on her finger. That done, she reclaimed her torch and began retracing her steps back to the cave opening. She was eager to leave. The open darkness of the cave felt strangely ominous. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was something out there, waiting to pounce on her. Something with too many legs, perhaps. And  _teeth_. Yes, it was best they save no time in leaving, spit spot.

She squeezed out through the narrow part of the crack with more haste than before, and popped out with relief into the passage beyond. It was odd how much stranger the tunnels looked now that she was no longer so focused on finding Prim. There was more light than she had realized: a washed-out, pale grey tinge to even the darkest shadows that let her see through what was utter blackness before. Perhaps she had found her night eyes!

Greatly daring, and feeling rather pleased with herself (for she had been very brave and explored a cave, quite like a dwarf adventurer of old!) she thrust her awkward torch into some of the dry dirt that covered this part of the tunnel. With a sputter and angry hiss, it died out.

“There!” she said, looking around at the tunnels and finding them almost as visible as they were before. “I thought so! I _have_ found my night eyes. Just like a dwarf! Bofur will be quite proud of me. Not much longer now, my friends! It’s just a little further this way and then to the left and we’ll be out. We mustn’t dally though. If we do, the caravan will leave without us, and won’t Gandalf be cross!”

Drogo made a small, cowed sound. Primula made no sound at all, but reminded of the urgency of her mission, Bilba made haste to hurry on.

The approach to the side tunnel’s entrance was marked by brightness, a faint shaft of daylight from the main tunnel’s entrance nearby. Bilba quickened her pace, seeing it, when suddenly she froze and pressed her back to the wall. Figures were crossing that gap, casting distorted shadows as they passed.

These were no dwarves.

There was an odd wind that she hadn’t noticed and hadn’t felt, a hiss that had blocked her ears from hearing the approach of those creatures. Creeping carefully, she inched closer to catch a glimpse of the owners of the shadows. Their bodies were bloated and ungainly, filthy with dirt and other things, grayish in color, nearly naked except for loincloths and weapons. Boils and blisters covered naked limbs: malice twisted their ugly faces. Even without ever having seen one before, she knew what they were.

Goblins! And not just one, or five, but a horde of them! Sheer horror froze her for long moments. Some distant part of her mind counted bodies, reaching fourteen before she shook herself free of numbness. Drogo and Prim pressed tightly against her, their bodies trembling. It was a miracle that they hadn’t seen her already, but none of the goblins had so much as glanced at the side-tunnel that held her.

She had to warn the caravan. She had to tell Gandalf! Oh blast and be-bother it—what was a hobbit to do?

 


	10. The Ubiquitousness of Hobbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dwarves are curious; some goblins drop in uninvited; the hawks practice basic arithmetic; Bilba's courage is tested; letter-writing under suboptimal conditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay. Real life rose up and kicked my ass all over the Western seaboard, in a nearly literal way--I actually had to scrub tread marks and dirt out of my pants this morning, in all seriousness--so I lacked energy and the willingness to edit.
> 
> But here we are, back in business, more or less. Barring more unasked for excitement, I'll post another chapter tomorrow and then get back to posting come Monday following.

Gandalf had just finished refilling his pipe weed pouch when one of the hawks and two of the little songbirds came swooping down to circle his head, screaming and warbling in a frenzy of excitement. Bofur, who’d been working on strapping barrels back on the cart with Bifur’s help, paused to watch them. They were practically dwarves, with how easy it was to understand them: it was plain enough they had something to say, and by the look on the wizard’s face, he wasn’t overmuch liking whatever it was.

“They seem upset,” Bofur said. “Now, where’d wee Bilbo get to?”

“Excuse me, Master Bofur,” Gandalf said, catching up his staff where it leaned against the pipe weed barrel. “I have something to attend to.”

Bofur’s curiosity had always been one of his besetting sins. He squinted a curious eye up at the wizard. “You look grim, Tharkûn. Is that ‘something’ of a wizardly sort? Need a hand there, or are ye just goin’ t’ see a dwarf about a horse?”

“That ‘wizardly’ part remains to be seen,” Gandalf returned, turning his own eye up to the birds. The hawk had settled on the lip of the cart, where he kept a watchful eye on the goings-on. The others were looping urgent spirals over his head, darting back towards the direction they had come before returning to assault Gandalf’s hat: hurry! Hurry! “A little company might not come amiss, though. You’re free to come along if you’ve nothing else to do.”

It wasn’t an enthusiastic invitation, but Bofur was never one to let a little adventure pass him by. And he was fond of friendly little Bilbo. When Gandalf set off to follow the birds, Bofur and Bifur stumped along beside him: Bofur with his mattock, Bifur with his boar spear.

The birds led them off the path through crags and gravel washes, forcing them to pick their way carefully where those with two feet were not fit to travel. More than once, the wizard was forced to call them back while he and the dwarves tried to find a way around an obstacle.

At one point, Bifur paused and jerked his head to the impassible ground before them. “Hobbit feet,” he said in Khuzdul. He’d always been one of the best at reading trail sign outside the mountain. “He must climb like a goat.”

“Yes, hobbits are quite nimble,” Gandalf said, without waiting for Bofur’s translation. “In that they have some similarity to elves. Though not able to walk on snow like the Firstborn can, hobbits can nonetheless travel places most other folk cannot—sometimes even more silently than elves, much to their chagrin!”

Bofur grinned, while Bifur looked sharply at Gandalf. “Who’s been teaching you our secret speech, then?” 

Gandalf huffed, looking up at the slope and a clump of shrubs and trees that blocked his view beyond. “I learned Khuzdul from Aulë himself. Do not speak to _me_ of secrets and—“

He stopped suddenly, throwing up a hand. They fell silent. Behind them, they could hear a few faint calls from the caravan. Ahead of them, there was a distant rattle of rocks. Without warning, the birds suddenly swooped back into view: two hawks now, both silent, the two smaller birds twittering.

Bofur looked on in fascination as the hawks swooped down to grab Gandalf’s sleeve and yank at him sideways, towards the undergrowth. The wizard batted them away, and then half-drew the sword hanging at his side. The blade glowed blue.

“Hide!” he ordered.

Their scramble to cover sounded like an avalanche.

The birds came to roost silently in the trees above them. A few minutes passed, during which the distant rattle of rocks became a whisper, then a shout of feet over gravel and turf. Then between one minute and the next, the goat track before them was filled with goblins. The three hidden settled lower, counting quickly until the goblins streamed out of sight over the hill towards the caravan.

“Mahal,” breathed Bofur, when they were gone. “We have to warn Alkar.”

Bifur growled in the back of his throat. He had no love for goblins.

“Twenty,” Gandalf said in a low voice. “A scouting party, and a noisy one at that. They won’t attack now, in daytime. They dislike the sun. They’ll follow the caravan until nightfall, and then call a horde out from the mountain to overwhelm you with numbers.”

“Then it’d be best if that shale don’t return to their mountain, aye?” Bofur scratched at his chin. “Bifur and I can go back to the caravan. Will you be coming back with us, wizard?”

Gandalf shook his head, even as the two smaller birds fluttered down to his shoulders. “I’m very much afraid that I’ve lost my hobbit. And Mistress Primula is missing as well, which bodes ill. I’ll rejoin you once I find them. As for you, Master Braveclaw and Master Quickwing—“ He raised his gaze to the two hawks, who were perched just above his head and muttering to each other in furious discussion. “Bofur and Bifur could use your aid, I think. Your sharp eyes could spot goblins that dwarves’ eyes might not. But watch for arrows!”

The two hawks screamed a hunting cry, launching themselves into the air like the very arrows Gandalf had warned them against. “Durin’s beard,” Bofur marveled. “It’s almost like they understand you.”

The look Gandalf gave them, as Bofur told his cousin later, made him feel like a stupid little dwarfling all over again.

They separated without further prompting. Bifur and Bofur couldn’t follow too closely on the goblins’ tracks. In Bofur's opinion, the two of them could easily handle ten goblins together ("Bah," said Bifur, moodily chewing on his beard) but a full scouting party was beyond their reach. Better to be certain they were all caught and accounted for, than lose one or two out of high spirits and optimism. The hawks—Quickwing and Braveclaw, though he'd be blessed if Bofur could tell one from the other—seemed to realize it, too. They led the way down a more circuitous route that took them around to the front of the caravan.

Alkar was counting heads when they arrived, coming up short by four and increasingly irritable about the fact. His disposition was naturally grim even at the best of times though, so there was little difference between his normal humor and the growl with which he greeted them.

“And where’s that daft wizard and halfling?” he demanded, eyeing them sourly as they scrambled up the slope to join him.

Filling him in was a quick business. Whatever his faults, Alkar was an experienced caravan leader, and had fought goblins more than once. He quickly concurred with Bofur’s suggestion of taking out the scouting party, though he was more skeptical about any assistance the hawks could offer.

Quickwing and Braveclaw were hovering high overhead—scouting, Bofur assumed—and came down at a wave from Bofur. “We counted twenty,” Bifur was telling the teamster leads, as the hawks settled onto Bofur’s shoulder and mattock. “We’ll need to get behind them somehow.”

“Don’t suppose you could tell us where they’re hiding,” Bofur said hopefully to the hawks.

One of them, astonishingly, bobbed its head.

The assembled dwarves stared at it. “Did that chicken just nod?” demanded Hefkun.

The hawks both hissed at Hefkun, plainly offended. The other dwarves muttered amongst themselves about magic and _wizards_. There had been some gossip around the campfire about the birds, but until now Bofur hadn’t bothered to share what the halfling had told him.

“Well now,” he said, mindful of the others’ unease. “They’re friends of Tharkûn’s, so there’s no telling what they might and might not be able to do. He said they could help, so help they can! But it won’t do a lick of good if we can’t figure out what they’re saying.”

“Point in a direction,” Bifur suggested, clever chap that he was. “Turn slowly. When you get to pointing in the right direction, they can say so.”

“That axe in your head’s made you smarter, cousin,” Bofur said admiringly. He started to turn. It was only when one of the hawks squawked, indicating a direction, that he realized that they’d had that whole conversation in Khuzdul.

Not only a wizard that understood their sacred language, but hawks as well. He smothered a guffaw. The elders would rip out their hair from rage if they knew.

Alkar gave quick orders. Under the cover of preparing to leave, fifteen of the caravan crept away to conceal themselves in the rocks. The hawks took to the air again to help guide them, while the rest with the caravan did their best to cover the gaps and confuse the scouts’ count. The plan was simple enough. Once the hawks confirmed that the hidden dwarves were in place, the caravan would proceed as though leaving. The scouts would follow them to make certain of their route and count. Once they passed the hidden dwarves, that group would attack, supported by the heavily-armed rear guard of the caravan on the other side of the scouts.

Bofur hadn’t been in too many skirmishes of this kind, but the plan sounded fine to him. Bifur, being distinctive to non-dwarf eyes on account of the axe in his head, moved to the caravan rear guard. Bofur stayed with Alkar as the closest thing to a bird interpreter they had left in this blasted train.

Up to a point, everything went according to plan. One of the hawks came plummeting down to land on Bofur’s arm, gripping carefully around the leather of his cuff. Alkar eyed him askance while Bofur confirmed that the hidden dwarves were under cover. The hawk took off again, and the caravan set off. Once the goblin scouts had passed their location, the hidden dwarves gave the signal to attack with a roar of, _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!_

Bofur was farther from the fight than he would’ve liked, but he charged back with his mattock the second the cry sounded. He hadn’t hunted his cousin down for forty years only to lose him to some stinking goblin club in the middle of nowhere! By the time he made it close enough to be of use, the fight was over. Twenty goblins was not, after all, that formidable a foe to a caravan of dwarves.

“Nice little fight!” Korug congratulated, grinning as he passed to thump Bofur on the shoulder. “Thanks for the entertainment! Your cousin’s a deft hand with that sticker of his, ain’t he? You know if he's seein' anyone regular, like?”

Bofur caught sight of Bifur checking over the bodies. The worst of the injuries on the dwarves’ side was a cut arm, easily tended. Bifur looked unharmed. “He fought in the war,” Bofur said cheerfully. “He’s the master of a good thrust and twist. As to whether he's using his spear on anyone at the moment, you'd have to ask him yourself.”

There were crows already circling, drawn to battle. Strangely, Bofur couldn’t see the hawks. He had a moment’s qualm about that, until the scream of one of them came echoing down to him and he relaxed. Though— it sounded angry. A few seconds later, the two hawks were swooping down to him. He threw up an arm on reflex, and felt the weight of one settling onto his vambrace.

Its beak was bloody, and so were its talons. It didn’t look happy. Then again, hawks always looked right miserable, in Bofur's opinion. All them feathers probably itched.

“Thanks for the help, Master . . . Quickwing? Braveclaw?” he grinned broadly. “Either road. You’ll get meat off the bone at dinner tonight, if I have to wrestle it from the cook myself.”

The hawk loosed a long series of chirps, a piercing sound like a pick to his ears. The other one came diving out of nowhere to land on a nearby wagon and squawk. Bofur’s grin faltered. Where was that longshanked wizard when you needed him? “It’s no good screaming at me. I don’t speak bird. What’s the problem, then? Goblins’re dead, we’re all well enough— do you need to be off to help Tharkûn?”

This time both hawks shrieked. Even not speaking bird, Bofur was fairly sure the hawks were cursing up a storm.

Bofur’s grin disappeared altogether.

“What’s the problem?” Alkar demanded, coming up alongside.

“Blessed if I know,” Bofur admitted frankly. “Bifur! The birdies have their beards all in a knot! Something’s wrong!”

Bifur raised an acknowledging hand and barked something up the hill at the other dwarves. Shouts went up in noisy answers. Bofur counted under his breath while the hawks settled, their eyes dark and alien.

“Ah, Mahal’s _ballsack_ ,” said Bofur.

“What?”

“Twenty goblin scouts.”

“And?”

“There are only nineteen bodies.”

 

 

Bilba counted to a careful fifty after the last goblin had passed before creeping forward again. She dared a glimpse around the corner to see if they had left a guard behind, or if any more goblins were forthcoming. Reassured, she ventured back out to the daylight and hurried to the nearest cover.

The world was still strangely grey, perhaps due to the gathering clouds overhead. There’d be a storm tonight, no mistake. Primula and Drogo were reluctant to take flight again, still shaken by their adventures underground, which was just as well to her thinking—it so much easier to keep track of birds when they weren’t flitting off on their daft explorations! Of the rest of the birds, there was no sign.

Well, there was nothing for it. Someone would have to warn the dwarves, and since there wasn’t anyone else who knew about them, that someone would have to be her! All her senses alive with the threat of danger nearby, she scampered down the mountainside, angling towards where she’d left the caravan.

She hadn’t gone more than a handful of minutes, moving as silently as she could through the bracken and around the gradually thickening trees, when she heard voices.

“—Dwarf caravan,” one said, whining. “Maybe forty of ‘em. There was a sign on one o’them carts you’d recognize, great lord. _Durin’s_ sign.”

The dark, growling voice that answered spoke no tongue that Bilba knew. Her hair stood on end at the malice in it: for a moment she thought the light darkened and shook around her.

These were no dwarves, nor was it Gandalf. They were no friends at all. She flattened herself against a tree, and dared to sneak a quick peek around its trunk. Several yards beyond was a goblin surrounded by, oh heavens! Wolves! Great wolves! Not the normal they saw in the West, but some sort of cousin to terrible wolves that were driven down from the north during the Fell Winter: _wargs_ they were called by the Rangers. And on their backs were more goblins, larger ones, several of them Man-sized or even bigger.

Bilba dropped where she stood, crouching into the protection of a shrub. She was downwind from the wargs, or else they would have found her by now. With every trembling part of her, she prayed for the wind to not change.

“Forty dwarves won’t be a match for three hundred goblins,” said the groveling goblin in the center. “Come nightfall, we’ll attack. They won’t escape us, Lord Bolg. I promise! I promise!”

The horrible voice that had spoken earlier spoke again. And now Bilba could see who owned it: one of the riding goblins, Man-sized and then some, white as a ghost and viciously scarred, with a horrifying spike in his left eye that held open the tattered lid.

With a squeak, the goblin in the center scampered away, back towards the cave that Bilba had just left. She held her breath, but it didn’t seem to see her. It came close enough to touch: then it was gone, bearing its tidings to its brethren. The goblins with the wargs turned their mounts away, and melted away into the trees.

 _Now_ what to do?

“Drogo, Prim,” she breathed, taking her hobbit friends into her hands when she was certain the goblins had all gone. They stared up at her with their bright, black eyes. “It’s up to you now. Be brave! There’s nothing for it. I shall try to make my way back to the caravan, but we need Gandalf, and that right quick. The dwarves have to be warned! Fly for it! Be off with you!”

It seemed that the two were reluctant. She tried casting them into the air, but they cling to her fingers, crying out piteously. Her heart was warmed by this sign of affection, but she was alarmed as well. “There’s nothing for it!” she whispered fiercely. “Fly! Fly! There are more lives at stake than just our own! Two dwarves protected you from goblins! It’s time for us to return the favor!”

 _That_ , at last, convinced them. They fluttered up with sad cheeps, flitting into the air to circle once before darting towards the distant caravan.

To tell truth, Bilba disliked seeing them go. Though they might not have been able to do much, they were the only company she had in her danger, and she immediately missed them with a terrible yearning. “But that’s foolish and selfish,” she told herself firmly, trying to squash the fear that was making her limbs tremble. “It was for the best. But, oh dear! I do hope I won’t end up some warg’s dinner.”

Indeed, she might as well have hoped in vain. For just as she thought it, slinking out of the bushes behind her came a giant warg without a rider, its head turning slowly from side to side as though it had heard her. And in sudden horror, Bilba realized that it was _downwind_.

She froze where she crouched.

There was nothing keeping the warg from seeing her. The bush she had hidden behind was of no use when _behind_ was where the warg was as well. Remembering stories about rabbits, she froze and barely dared to breathe, certain that the next instant would see teeth meeting in her throat. She would have closed her eyes if she could, but she was too terrified not to watch: her eyes grew larger and larger, until she thought they might pop entirely out of her head.

But the warg did not attack.

It swung its head from side to side, its nose wrinkling as it sniffed. Again. Again. It took a step forward and tested the wind again. For several seconds Bilba simply crouched there, petrified, until some tiny part of her numb mind tapped politely on the door and whispered, _it doesn’t see you._

“It doesn’t see me?” squeaked the part of her mind that was madly focused on those massive claws, those powerful jaws, those _teeth,_ those hobbit-crunching, slavering, arm-long  _teeth_ , oh _help!_  “What do you mean, it can’t see me?”

But it was true. The warg could smell her, plainly—already it was several feet closer, prowling its way closer step by step—but its eyes had swept by her several times already without once pausing to rest on her.

Running away would have been her preference, but there was no chance of that. Though it might not have been able to see her, there was no proof it could not _hear_ her. Quiet though any hobbit could be, there were limits to even their great stealth. To stay where she was was also no option: with each second the warg grew closer, and soon it would step right on her. Visible or not, there would be no doubt she was there once it was right on top of her. That left only one choice.

As silently as she could, she drew her little sword. Its glow was subdued—dark beings nearby? Well, she certainly knew _that_! Not daring to breathe, barely daring to move, she turned it so the point faced the warg. Her first blow would have to be a killing one, or else she’d be dead before she could land the next. The beast was enormous! But the eyes—she swallowed heavily—perhaps if she thrust her blade through an eyesocket….

Really, it would be just like the games at the Midsummer parties, she told herself, queasy. Stick the tail on the pig. Toss the chestnut in the bottle. Poke the sword in the eye. Succeed, and win a goblin pie! Oh,  _help_. She shoved her fist in her mouth to stifle the urge to giggle hysterically. 

Carefully, oh so carefully, she rose to her feet. The warg was sniffing the ground only two steps away. She poised her sword to strike—

“Bilba!”

Gandalf’s voice! The warg jerked its head up, glaring towards the sound. Now! While it was distracted! She gave up her target, squeezed her own eyes shut, and lunged behind her sword as hard as she could into the exposed throat. The warg recoiled, blood spraying in a great gush as it dragged the sword out of her hands. It whined, sharp and astonishingly high for a beast that size.

“Bilba!”

The warg staggered. Bilba dove in to grab her sword hilt, and ripped it out. The flood of foul blood was thick. It splattered her arms up to the elbows, a hot splash painting her face.

With another gurgling whine, the warg fell, and died.

She was dazed. The world felt like it was far away, her arms and legs moving of their own volition. Gandalf. She’d heard Gandalf. Stumbling at first, then regaining her steadiness, she ran as quietly as she could towards the voice she’d heard. Her sword was no longer glowing: there were no more goblins and wargs nearby. But the daft wizard would call them straight to him if he kept shouting!

The birds came first. Rory and Hamfast zipped by overhead, not even pausing at the sight of her. She stopped to call after them, and then was nearly bowled over by Gandalf. He was striding along on his long Man legs, too swift (and loud!) for a hobbit. Like the birds, he didn’t seem to spy her, though she was standing almost in front of him.

She stopped to stare after him, her mouth agape. Now what was this? Had her time in the tunnels made her utterly invisible?

With a muttered complaint, she set off in pursuit. Their course was taking her back the way she came: soon enough they stumbled back in the small hollow where she’d killed the warg. When she burst on the scene, Rory, Hamfast, and Gandalf were by the dead warg, studying it with alarm.

“—Sword, this,” Gandalf was saying, touching the gash in the warg’s throat. “Bilba’s doing? Trolls, and then wargs! A dangerous hobbit. But what are wargs doing so far south?”

“A very good question!” said Bilba, gasping for breath. “Although a better question might be how it is they haven’t stumbled across you already, with your shouting of names and crashing through bushes.”

The birds squeaked. Gandalf whirled, his staff coming dangerously close to bopping Bilba across the head. She yelped, indignant, and drew her foot back to kick him soundly in the shins before remembering herself. 

"Is that any way to treat a hobbit?" she demanded, much aggrieved. "I would have you know I have been  _quite brave_ today. Certainly not deserving of any head-bashings. Pray watch what you're about with that thing!"

His gaze swept across Bilba without stopping: he could not see her. “Bilba?” he called sharply. “Bilba Baggins?”

Confusticate it all! What could possibly have—

It was only when she was preparing to shake her finger in his face that she caught sight of the ring. It was the only thing different between before the cave and after the cave, barring a few scrapes and much more dirt. She wrenched it off and dropped it in her pocket, the warg’s blood making everything slippery, and:

“Bilba!” Gandalf cried. Rory and Hamfast shrieked, then cheered. “How on earth—“

She hushed them desperately, urging them quieter with flaps of her hands. “Goblins! Goblins everywhere!” she hissed. “And wargs! And goblins riding wargs! I overheard them. Three hundred goblins are coming out tonight to attack the caravan, and there’s a goblin lord, Bolg—“

“Bolg! Are you sure? A great white creature, larger than a Man?”

“You know him then?”

Gandalf looked grim under his grey hat. “That I do, though I thought him dead with his father. Well. That explains something, anyway. There’s more than one who will be interested in that news, though that depends entirely on us getting out of this pickle to begin with. But you're covered in blood, my dear.”

She shuddered: she was, though she'd managed to forget the fact for a moment or two. How desperate she was for a bath and a clean change of clothing! Followed by a bathrobe, a warm pot of tea, and a quiet spot to have hysterics in. “It's not mine," she reassured hastily, scraping her sticky arms off on a nearby shrub. "I sent Drogo and Primula to find you. I thought they might—“

But here she was interrupted: not by wargs or goblins this time, but by far happier company. A familiar bird’s scream sounded from above, and even as she looked up, four small bodies hurtled down at her from above. “Drogo! Prim! Quickwing! Braveclaw!”

Hamfast and Rory spiraled up to meet their hobbit friends, chittering in relief. Braveclaw came to drop onto her shoulder, while Quickwing landed on the warg to investigate its corpse. His beak was wet with blood. So was Braveclaw’s, she realized. “You’ve been fighting, my friends!”

“The goblin scouts,” Gandalf said, as the hawks preened, looking smug. “But it will do little use now. We must get word to the caravan. They must move out of these mountains before night falls, or else they will be overrun.”

“We can—“ Even as she began her thought, she caught sight of her sword. The blue glow was dim in the daylight, but growing stronger by the second. “Gandalf!”

“So I see,” Gandalf said. “Come! We must run!”

They ran. The howls of the hunting wargs pursued them as they did, driving them through the trees and into dark places. Bilba’s heart seemed fair to shake entirely out of her body, so hard was it racing. It seemed, too, as though they were being driven away from the caravan. What glimpses Bilba caught of the sun placed it in the wrong direction—they were going northeast, while the caravan was headed southeast.

“This isn’t going to work,” she gasped at the first opportunity. “We’ll never reach the caravan at this rate. We’ll need to send word some other way. Can’t you do something with magic?”

“If we could speak through magic, there would be no need for all my traveling, would there?” Gandalf said, much exasperated.

The hawks had descended to guard their rest, perched on nearby branches. She leaned against their trunk and peered up at them. “Bofur,” she said slowly.

Braveclaw, staring down at her, chirped in question. Gandalf, leaning on his staff, raised an eyebrow.

“Bofur told me about ravens in Erebor,” she said, with growing enthusiasm. “They carry messages to far off places.”

“The ravens of Erebor speak a tongue understood by dwarves,” Gandalf pointed out.

“And so will Braveclaw! Have you a paper and pen?”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose higher as he snorted. There was no help forthcoming from that quarter, then. Without further ado, she tugged her shirt out of her trousers and began sawing at its hem with the tip of her sword. It was an awkward business. She cut herself more than once. She had found little time to clean the blade beyond wiping it quickly on the fur of the warg. The strip she removed was uneven and ragged, edged with blood.

That task done, she hunted for a twig and then began the laborious process of trying to write a message on the cloth. She had no ink; the warg blood that had drenched her earlier had dried as they careened through the woods. Left with no other choice, she made do with the fresh blood seeping from her hands, moaning all the while over the disgusting business.

Adventures were such unsanitary things. Alas, for Bag End and her copper bathtub! And indoor plumbing! She could have cried.

Eventually the message was finished to her satisfaction. Gandalf, reading over her shoulder, chuckled. “Short, to the point, and unmistakably from a hobbit.” He touched the message with a finger, muttering under his breath. Before Bilba could protest that the blood-ink was wet, he retreated. “It won’t smear now,” he promised. “Not until it’s read, at any rate. Come, Master Braveclaw, Master Quickwing! We have need of you!”

Braveclaw dropped to land on Bilba’s arm. With Gandalf’s help, they tied it around the dwarf’s bloody leg. “Fly quick!” she cried, throwing him into the air. Quickwing launched after him, screaming. “Fly straight! Get word to the caravan and help them if you can!”

“And if we do not catch up with it by three days hence, look for us at Beorn’s house!” Gandalf called after, as the howls of hunting wargs rose behind them.

 


	11. Superfluous Goblins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the hawks make a command decision; the timeliness of air mail; the goblins have a bad night; books are closed on the missing; the dwarves bid farewell to birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so much for real life not being a jerk. 
> 
> As of this week (and plainly for the last week) updates will happen on a less daily basis. Much editing and revision is ahead of me, as well as the difficulties of a new job! I'll try to do weekly Monday updates and maintain them. By way of apology, have a long chapter!

 

The hawks flew.

Below them, the straggling trees and rocks of the Misty Mountains sprawled wide in grays and greens. Bilba and Gandalf had strayed far from the caravan: from high above, they could see the hunting wargs, and the goblins that rode them. Fifteen of them, all told. Another eight wargs unmounted.

Quickwing cried out on the wind, bright with hatred.

The caravan was already in movement below them. Even before Quickwing and Braveclaw had left them, the dwarves had been scrambling to get underway again. They were no fools. An escaped goblin meant an attack tonight, when the sun that they hated was long gone. Tens of thousands of goblins had died during the War of Dwarves and Orcs—but that was fifty years ago, and the goblin numbers had only risen.

The dwarves flew higher. The caravan was pushing themselves at a hard pace, but there was no chance that they would be off the mountains by nightfall. There were perhaps two places ahead that might be defended with a small party ahead of them. Quickwing called a question.

In the distance, sunlight flashed off metal.

Braveheart banked, turning. It was a sight only raptors could pick out as far away as they were. The distant gleam they saw was a military force, a hundred dwarves mounted on rams.

He screamed in triumph. As one, the two hawks raced towards them.

 

 

 

 

 

Dwalin nudged his heels into his ram, urging it forward to keep pace with Thorin’s. He scowled. “You should send your sister back. She doesn’t belong here.”

It was getting to be a tedious refrain with him. “She saved your life two nights back,” Thorin said, not turning his head to look at his old friend.

They had run across a small band of orcs three days gone, the tattered remnants of some other raiding party driven off by a settlement of Men. The scouts Dwalin had sent ahead of them had caught sight of them before the orcs had known the dwarves were there, and given them enough warning to set up an ambush.

The orcs had been wiped out. Only been six dwarves had been wounded, none of them badly. Dís herself had accounted for five of them, one of them just before it had struck at Dwalin from behind.

No wise dwarf stood before a dwarrowdam in her rage.

“Aye, and I’m grateful,” Dwalin said without resentment. He drew his thumb across his jaw, tracing the line of an old scar. “But it isn’t safe out here.”

“It’s more safe than it would be for _me_  if I told her I was sending her back.”

Dwalin grunted, conceding the point.

The skirmish had lifted the spirits of the most of the company, who had enjoyed the break from the tedium of travel. It had done nothing for Dis’s mood, though: she was as cold and blank as ever. Thorin, watching her riding a few columns away, felt his stomach clench afresh in fear for her. She rode as though she saw nothing around her, indifferent to the reins and the presence of the company.

None of them dared to address her. She rode in an isolation of her own making.

“Do you even have a plan?” Dwalin asked.

“We reach the mountains tonight,” Thorin said quietly, over the creak of the gear and the noise of their travel. “Our dark sight is as good as any orc’s. We'll search for strays and question them on my sister-sons’ whereabouts.”

“That's bollocks."

"It's what I have."

Dwalin grunted. "Tactical genius, you are."

They rode on in dark silence.

After a while, Dwalin noted, "They’ll lie.”

“They'll be motivated to tell the truth.”

“Should’ve brought Nori then,” Dwalin grumbled. “He’s the one with a talent for sniffing out truths.”

Thorin’s mouth pressed thin. “I have no need of Nori. Do you think any orc would lie to Dís?”

Whatever Dwalin’s thoughts were on this, they were never to be uttered. His mouth was open, but his words were cut off by a sudden high, alien scream. It was echoed by another. To shouts from behind him, Thorin looked up into the sky, and found two small bodies hurtling towards him. He threw up an arm to protect his eyes—behind him, Captain Ygrod roared, “Archers!”—when suddenly there was a flapping of wings, a touch of hard feathers against his cheek, and then new weights upon his forearm and shoulder.

Bewildered, he lowered his arm. Wings beat again around a plaintive cry. On his arm, its claws sank into his vambrace, sat a hawk. It was a rich, almost golden brown, with darker markings along its wings and a head of dappled, grayish blue. Its eyes were bright, canny black rimmed with yellow. Around its foot was tied a piece of cloth.

“Mahal!” Dwalin swore, reaching to swipe at it.

Unthinking, Thorin threw up his other hand to block Dwalin’s arm. The bird, wild though it might have been, only rocked with the motion and did not flee.

“Thorin,” Dwalin protested. “You great tit. That one on your shoulder could rip your blasted ear off.”

“It could only improve his looks,” Dís said, the first words she had spoken since they’d found the site of the attack a week ago. She had nudged her mount closer from the other side and studied it with interest. The hawk on Thorin’s shoulder was much like the one his arm, though its head was golden rather than grey. It crooned at her and hopped closer, stretching towards her with its neck before fluttering off Thorin’s shoulder onto her pommel.

Her eyes, already wide with surprise, widened further still.

The entire company had halted, uncertain, in the face of what had first appeared to be a strange attack and now seemed to be—what? The dwarves muttered amongst themselves, confused and suspicious. They had no great understanding or love of the world outside the mountain. Thorin, who as heir to Thráin had spent time in the great courts of Men, had ridden out with the lords of Dol Amroth on the hunt. He had visited the mews and watched hawks trained to the lure.

The birds had struck him then as sad, then. Brave, fierce creatures, leashed at the whim of Men, hooded and caged except for the rare flights when they soared high above the earth and screamed their defiance to the sky. These hawks though: these had no jesses, no hoods, nothing to chain them to the will of a mortal master. Their eyes were dark and clear, intelligent, fixed on him with all the arrogance of royalty.

They were beautiful, a wild, fey beauty that had nothing to do with stone. Awe pulled at his heart.

“Good day to you, Master Hawk,” he murmured, prompted by some whim. “I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór.”

He inclined his head, ignoring Dwalin’s snort. To his astonishment, the hawk made a small sound in its throat and bobbed its head in reply.

Khuzdul curses rose around him. A strange feeling tugged at Thorin’s face. It took him a moment to realize it was a smile. He had not smiled or laughed since he’d strode into a room to meet Glóin and Néru.

“It’s unnatural,” muttered a dwarf behind him.

“It’s certainly interesting,” Dís said dryly. He tore his gaze away from the hawk long enough to glance at her. She was watching the hawk on her pommel. His chest twisted: though still sorrowful, her eyes were alert, present, aware in a way they hadn’t been outside of battle. “What is it about you that attracts the oddest creatures, Thorin?”

Dwalin scowled, not quite hiding gratification at the insult.

“Curse of the Durins. But this is a first,” Thorin admitted. The hawk on his arm had started tugging at the end of the cloth on his foot. Thorin frowned. There were letters on the fabric: he could see the shape of a recognizable rune. “May I aid you, Master Hawk?” he asked in Westron.

“You’re talking like it’s not just some dumb beast,” Dwalin complained.

The hawk hissed at him and stuck its wrapped leg out at Thorin in an obvious demand. Dwalin’s jaw dropped. Dís almost smiled. “I think you’re answered.”

Undoing the cloth one-handed was easy work for a dwarf used to the complicated braids used to denote rank and accomplishment. The hawk watched the operation critically, turning its head this way and that to get a better angle for viewing. Thorin’s first thought, that the hawk had gotten entangled by accident, was speedily dismissed when he understood the knot.

He tugged it free. For curiosity’s sake, he untwisted the cloth and then stopped, frowning at it.

“Thorin?” Dwalin asked. “What is it?”

He handed it over.

Dwalin read aloud: “‘ _Bofur - 300 goblins attacking tonight: run! -Yours, B. Baggins._ ’ Well, that’s straightforward enough. Funny time to be polite. 'Bofur,' huh.“

“It’s written in blood,” Thorin said, sniffing his fingers where the ink had transferred. It made a glistening patch on his glove. “Still fresh. How far can a hawk fly before blood dries?”

“You _can’t_ be thinking—“

“Three hundred.” Dís, who had been engaged in carefully studying the hawk on her pommel, had stopped to raise her head. Her face was fierce. “Thorin.“

“It’s as plain as the nose on your face that it’s a _trap_!” Dwalin grated.

“You recognized the name,” Thorin said, over his hawk’s high-pitched shriek.

“Aye. Bofur. At least, I know one. Friend of Nori’s. Left to find his cousin who was lost at Azanulbizar. Nori got a raven four months back that he’d found him and was heading back, but—“

“A dwarf caravan then, nearby.”

“—I don’t recognize this . . . this _B. Baggins_ , whatever kind of name that is.”

“A trap is only a trap if we step into it unawares.”

“And you’ve got pig shit for brains if you think I’m going to take the last next two heirs of my king into it!”

“If you will not go, I will,” said Dís, her voice hard. Dwalin and Thorin stopped to look over at her. “For want of aid, my sons were taken. I will not surrender any more of our people to this filth.”

“Dís—“

“How different is this from your plan? If there is a fight, there will be orcs to capture and question about my sons.”

“It’s one thing to search for orcs. It’s another thing altogether to step into their jaws!” Dwalin said.

“I would step unarmed into the arms of _Mandos_ _himself_ if it meant my sons were—“ Dís began, her voice rising. She stopped, pressing her mouth into a white, hard line.

The hawk on her pommel fluttered to her armored shoulder. She flinched, startled. It crooned and bowed its head, using its sharp beak to gently groom her hair. With a squawk, the hawk on Thorin’s arm flapped to take its fellow’s place on her saddle, where it sidled over until it was under her hand. Her eyes widened, then softened a fraction from their icy hardness.

“Sorcery,” Dwalin muttered. “This is elven magic.”

“If Bofur is with a caravan to Erebor, it will be on the High Pass road,” Thorin said.

Dwalin threw up his hands with a frustrated curse. “Aye, I hear you! We’re going against common sense. I want that to be remembered when everything goes pear-shaped and I say, ‘I told you so.’”

Thorin snorted at the resignation in Dwalin’s face. Whether in agreement or not, once committed, his old friend was unstoppable. “We ride hard. Extra axes will do the caravan no good if we are not there in time to use them.”

Against all of Thorin’s expectations, the hawks mostly stayed with them as they rode. Dís was their preferred perch, though from time to time one would join him instead, clinging to his shoulder or crouched on his pommel. Once, one tried to land on Dwalin, only to be shooed away: Dwalin had no love for anyone or anything not family, including the irascible ram he was riding.

When the birds wearied of riding, they flew a little ahead. Once or twice Thorin looked up to find one of them missing. It never lasted too long. Eventually there were two again.

They rode through the day, pausing only long enough to rest and water the rams. Then they were moving again. The sun had been down for an hour and they were on the lower slopes of the mountains when one of their scouts returned to report that the caravan lay only half an hour ahead.

“Forty dwarves,” Hfal said, drawing up beside them. “They’ve found a defensible position, but it willnae hold fer long.”

“Any sign of the goblins?” Thorin asked.

“Aye. The mountainside is crawlin’ wif the ugly buggers.”

They had no time. He urged the company to a faster pace.

In the end, Durin himself couldn’t have been more timely. The first cries and clash of fighting came down to them as their rams leaped up the slopes. To charge uphill and break a shield wall was something only dwarves on battle rams could do—and these goblins were the disorganized, riotous scum of the Misty Mountains, not hardened, disciplined soldiers. They dealt in overwhelming numbers rather than shield walls or strategy.

The caravan had found refuge on a ledge that jutted out from the mountain, a long lip that was bounded on three sides by walls built up by earlier travelers. The goblins were forced to attack through a narrow lane that could be held for some time by determined dwarves.

Even as Thorin’s company arrived, one of the caravan’s number fell under a goblin's sword.

“ _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”_ he shouted, urging his ram forward into a gallop.

Behind him, the roar of his company thundered in reply.

It was madness, chaos: the kind of battle he had not engaged in since the War. The goblins hurled themselves off the side of the mountain to bring down dwarves under their weight. Those still mounted drove their rams at groups of goblins, sending them flying to break their bones against the rocks. A goblin rose up in front of Thorin, thrusting a pike at his ram. He slashed the pike head off with his sword, leaving the rest to his ram to trample while he leaned back, letting another goblin’s sword thrust pass over his body. He knocked the blade off course with his shield, retaliating with a swift thrust that pierced its throat before swinging back to the other side to behead another.

A moment later, a swarm of goblins hurtled down on him from above, knocking him off his ram. Dwalin's roar echoed off the rocks; his war hammers sent the gnarled bodies flying off Thorin, and he surged back up to leap back into the fight.

Dís was like an army unto herself: her axes whirled too fast to be seen, splitting a goblin from pate to groin before coming back up to block a thrust and disembowel another goblin with the backswing. For every one that Dwalin and Thorin killed, Dís killed three. Goblins scrambled to get out of her way as she advanced: her face was a mask of death.

Even the full might of Thorin’s sword could not compare to a dwarrowdam avenging her sons.

It seemed, too, that there were other forces aiding them. A goblin rose up behind Dís, a spear in hand: a shadow dove at its face, screaming, and the goblin fell back clutching eyes only to fall to another dwarf's sword. An arrow thudded into the oak branch Thorin used as shield, blocked by accident rather than intent: on a nearby crag, he caught sight of a misshapen archer flailing before it toppled backward and disappeared.

This was no level battlefield, to see clearly when the enemy broke and fled. It was instinct born of experience that told them. Between one goblin and the next, Thorin felt their resistance soften. A few minutes later, a cry went up—“ _They retreat! They retreat!”_ —and Dwalin roared out, “ _Stand your ground! Do not follow!”_

Thorin whirled his blade to cleave a goblin’s head off its shoulders, and spun just in time to knock another across the head. The remnants of the goblin force was scampering away, chased by shouts and the occasional arrow. There were no more enemies to fight.

Around them, the ground was slippery, treacherous with the blood and guts of dead goblins. Dwalin grabbed his arm to steady him, though there was nothing underfoot to trip him up. Thorin glared, shaking himself free: Dís stood nearby, the smallest of frowns on her face, blood dripping from her axes.

Another flutter of wings sounded. With a quiet cry, the hawks dropped to land—one on Dis’s shoulder, the other on Thorin’s.

“Unnatural,” Dwalin grumbled.

There were no cheers for victory. There was no guarantee that the goblins wouldn’t return tonight in greater numbers. While the rest of the company began dealing with the aftermath under Ygrod’s supervision, Dwalin, Thorin, and Dís went to greet the caravan. Several dwarves were already hastening to meet them.

The caravan leader, a grey-haired dwarf named Alkar, was gruff but sincere in his thanks and respect, though Dis’s presence was much cause for awe and alarm. “Din’t think we’d make it through tha’,” he said, mumbling through a split lip and bloody nose. “Dunno what brought you, but Mahal’s hammer! You’re timely, Highness.”

“Thanks for that are due to a certain ‘B. Baggins,’ and the bird on my shoulder,” Thorin said dryly, noting the dwarf's curious gaze flicking towards the hawk. “Were it not for his message, we would not have found you until late tomorrow.”

Alkar’s mouth opened, his face a study, but he was interrupted. “Hah! I thought that was you, Master Braveclaw, Master Quickwing!” cried a black-haired dwarf in a floppy hat, who pushed his way through the crowd and saluted happily. “I’ll never speak ill of a wizard again!”

The hawk on Thorin’s shoulder squawked.

“Master Braveclaw, is it?” he murmured aside, and received a vexed mutter in return. “Then this is your hawk?”

“Not mine,” the other dwarf said hastily. “Not anyone’s, according to Master Baggins— but here, I’ve forgot my manners. Bofur, son of Bomfur, at your service, your majesty!” He swept off his floppy hat and bowed clumsily. “Thank ye kindly for saving our arses!”

Dwalin snorted beside Thorin. “I remember you. You’re Nori’s friend.”

Bofur grinned. He was a cheerful fellow. “Oh, aye, and who could forget Dwalin Fundinul. You’re all a grand sight for sore eyes. Better looking than goblins, that’s for certain.” He seemed to take in Dis’s presence for the first time, and his jaw dropped. “ _Oi_ —“

Braveclaw made a sound that Thorin could have sworn was a chuckle.

Dwalin’s grumble was more amused than angry. “You have interesting taste in friends, Master Bofur,” Dís said coolly, while Dwalin handed Bofur the scrap of cloth the hawk had brought. Bofur tore his stare away from Dís and accepted it, bewilderment making way for sharp concern at the blood on the fabric. “‘Baggins’ is not a dwarf name.”

“Bilbo, aye. Bilbo Baggins. He’s a hobbit, see. Halfling, that is,” Bofur explained, seeing their confusion. Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a glance. Halflings! They were a legend at best, a bedtime story told to children. “Traveling with Tharkûn and the birds. They were part of our caravan, until we lost ‘em earlier in the day.”

"Lost them?" Dwalin echoed.

“Taken?” Thorin asked, alarmed. Tharkûn was a great force for good in the world, irritating though he was. His loss would be a grievous blow to the Free Folk.

Bofur looked surprised. “Nah. Wandered off, a half-day’s travel that way.” He waved vaguely to the night-shadowed slopes behind them. His face was troubled. “The birdies were upset, so Tharkûn, Bifur, an' me went following them. Think something’d happened to Bilbo, but we ran across a goblin scouting party so we split up: he went on, Bifur and me came back to bring word to Alkar. Sprang an ambush on the ugly shites, but one of the scouts got away so we had to run for it. Didn’t sit right with us, leaving him and Bilbo behind, but it didn’t seem like we could stick about and wait for them. Not with night coming and us sitting like diamonds in clay on the mountainside, just there for the picking.”

“Blasted wizards,” muttered the caravan leader, before allowing grudgingly, “though if he’s the cause of yer axes coming to our aid, I’ll grant he has his uses.”

“And so do Masters Quickwing and Braveclaw,” Bofur said, popping off his hat to make a bow to the birds. “At your very great service! But does this mean Bilbo is safe?”

The question, it seemed, was addressed to the hawks. Thorin could only see the one on his shoulder out of the corner of his eye, but from the way Dwalin’s eyes showed white and Bofur’s face fell, he could only assume it had made some sign to the contrary.

“Ah, that’s bad,” Bofur fretted. “We’ll have to hope Tharkûn had better luck.”

Beneath his focus on the moment, and the search for his sister-sons that had consumed him for the last few weeks, Thorin burned with curiosity about these strangely intelligent birds and the mystery of Tharkûn and a halfling traveling over the Misty Mountains. But there were more urgent things before him that needed his attention first. He left the caravan’s members in the hands of the company’s captain, and turned his focus elsewhere.

The site the caravan chose to make a stand on was the most defensible they’d seen in their fast ride here. They decided to stay the night, moving the injured and wounded towards the back of the camping area and posting sentries all around in case of another assault. Seven dwarves had died between the caravan and the company, with another likely to die before morning. The losses hurt, but it was still a smaller number than it might have been. They would lay the bodies under stone in the morning. The bodies of the goblins they hurled into a crevice downwind of the camp site.

A few of the goblins had survived, too wounded to escape.

“I should be the one to question them,” Dís said.

“We need them alive,” Dwalin said. “At least for a little while.”

“They’ll live long enough to tell me what I need to know.” By now there was a hawk riding on both of Dis’s shoulders but she no longer seemed to heed them, lost in her own cold fury.

It would be ugly work, filthy, without honor. But it had to be done.

“We’ll do it together, namadith,” Thorin said.

“And me, too,” Dwalin said. At Thorin’s look, he snorted. “What, you think I’m going to leave you two with a bunch of stinking orcs?”

They had the prisoners brought one by one to a ledge near the ravine they had used to dispose of the goblin bodies. Each one was questioned until they were certain they had wrung everything they could. Then the goblins were executed and thrown into the ravine.

They were on the fourth prisoner before any had useful information beyond taunts, jeers, or craven pleas. The seventh gave them more. And it was with the ninth that they stopped, Dis’s hand clutched around a shorn, tattered blond braid capped with a familiar bead, a trophy ripped from the goblin’s loincloth.

Her face was like stone, her eyes lost.The hawks were silent, pressing against Dis’s neck and cheek, where tears streamed in silent agony. She did not seem to notice.

Thorin stood exhausted and hollow, his throat choked almost too tight to breathe.

“Mahal watch over them,” Dwalin said wearily, his head hanging. The blood of the last goblin was a pool around his boots, gleaming in the torchlight. Ygrod’s soldiers were already removing the corpse. “They were good lads.”

They had been the mithril in the line of Durin, the hope for Erebor’s future. Bright-haired Fili, Thorin’s heir; prankster Kili, the archer prince. Since the day the midwife had laid them, newly born, into his arms, they had held his heart in their hands.

“May we meet again in the Halls of Waiting, sons of my heart,” Thorin said, his tongue thick.

His eyes were dry as sand.

 

 

 

 

 

There were no further attacks that night, though the eighth dwarf died before the sun rose. In the morning they laid the dead in honor under stone, with what mourning rites they could. Then they set off for Erebor: a caravan escorted by the Crown Prince and Princess of Erebor, and a ninety-seven of the King’s Guard.

Dís had gone silent again. She had not slept, nor wept again, but moved like an animated statue, seeing little and responding to less. The hawks did not leave her, save once in the morning to hunt.

What part of Thorin he could spare from grief and command of the company was grateful to them. She was deaf to Thorin and Dwalin: they had managed to force a few bites of food into her and water too, but she turned her head away from them when they had tried for more. The hawks were able to pull more of a reaction out of her, perhaps by their very strangeness. When one snuck under her hand, she petted it for a few seconds before her hands stilled. When one nuzzled her cheek, she turned her head into the softness, her eyes blank.

Without orders, the company formed with her in the center, guarding their princess with the ferocity of devotion and shared grief. Fíli and Kíli had been beloved by all.

A day’s travel, slowed by the wounded, brought them to the base of the mountains. Though they guarded against further attack, none happened. The second day went faster. Dwalin’s guard never dropped, but he fell back to talk to Bofur and question him and his cousin about Tharkûn. The wizard’s appearances were ever timed with calamitous events and warnings of danger. Thorin was not foolish enough to think him a doom-bringer like some dwarves, but it was no mistake that his presence usually meant some sort of change was in the wind.

“Whatever business he was on though, he kept to himself,” Dwalin reported, returning to ride next to Thorin at the front of the column. “According to his halfling, the wizard was just there to escort the birds.”

“What use do birds have for a wizard?” Thorin asked.

“What use do dwarves have for one? But he shows up from time to time, all the same,” Dwalin grumbled. He was not fond of Tharkûn, taking the wizard’s criticisms of the Durins as a personal offense.

There was no change in Dís that day. Nor in the third, either. Thorin watched over her at night, and though her eyes closed obediently at his order that she rest, she lay still and wakeful, simply waiting for the day to come again.

It was on the third day of riding that Thorin felt the smooth progress of the company stumble behind him. Dwalin turned, as he did: the columns were parting, opening a path down the center where Dís rode.

“Highness,” one of the guard said. “Captain Ygrod asks that you come.”

Half-fearing, half-hoping that Dís had awoken from her walking sleep, Thorin turned his ram and trotted down the aisle, Dwalin as ever beside him. As he approached, he saw that her face was still the mask of unmoving stone that she had worn the last three days. But there was color in her cheeks for the first time, and something like softness had relaxed the set line of her mouth.

Hovering before her was a mote of bright green, an emerald floating in mid-air. As he neared, Thorin realized that it was a tiny bird, its wings beating so quickly that they were nearly invisible. On Dis’s shoulder, one of the hawks was leaning forward, making gentle crooning sounds.

It was almost as though the birds were speaking.

Ygrod, who had been riding beside Dís, rode forward to meet them. “It appeared out of nowhere, highness,” he said, nodding back to the new bird. There was unease and awe in his face. “One of the hawks _called_ to it. It’s been hovering there ever since.”

“Bofur said one of Tharkun’s birds was like a cut gem,” Dwalin said, as Ygrod drew back to let them pass. Even as he did, Dís raised a cautious hand to the little bird, which seemed to eye it skeptically. The other hawk chirped. Perhaps it was reassurance. Whatever the reason, little bird landed delicately on Dis’s finger. Wonder awoke in her eyes.

The bird was beyond tiny.

“Call Bofur,” Thorin ordered to Ygrod, as he and Dwalin pulled up to flank Dís. “Maybe it’s looking for him.”

There was already a commotion behind them however. Before Ygrod could dispatch a soldier, the columns were parting to disgorge Bofur himself, awkwardly mounted on one of the spare rams. He snatched his hat off when he saw Thorin. “Beggin' pardon, Highness, but—“ He broke off, spying the little bird. His face split in the broad grin that never seemed too far from the miner’s face. “So _there_ you are.”

“You know it, then?”

“Oh, aye. That there’s Primula. She’s a . . . what was it Bilbo called her? A hummerbird, I think.”

The hawks made sounds of amusement. Thorin would have sworn the little bird—Primula?—stuck its tongue out at Bofur, though it happened so quickly, it was barely a flicker in the air.

“Or maybe I got that wrong,” Bofur said, turning his grin on the bird. “Sorry, lass. That’s Yavanna’s lore. Not a natural fit for dwarves.”

“One of Tharkûn’s birds, then,” Thorin said, studying it in fascination. “Does that mean Tharkûn is not far behind?”

“Well, as to that—“ Bofur plopped his disreputable hat back on his head and dug into his coat, coming up with a strip of white that he handed to Thorin. “She dropped by to see me first before she came up here. Was carryin’ that. I thought you’d like to know.”

The paper was so thin it was nearly transparent, a far cry from the heavy cloth that the hawk had carried bound around its leg. The writing was tiny and meticulous. Dwalin crowded to read it next to him. ‘ _Hope all well. If alive pls lv packs w. Bard in Dale, if not, pls no worry self, t.y. - Yrs B. Baggins.’_

At least it wasn’t written in blood this time.

“Only a wizard would think to use a king as a pack-minder,” Dwalin said with exasperation.

“Or perhaps it’s the halfling,” Thorin said, feeling a distant touch of amusement.

“At any rate, sounds like they’re safe,” Bofur said.

The hawks were muttering to each other—the sound of it was familiar: even birds had arguments, it seemed—and without warning, the one on Dís’s pommel leapt up to balance on her arm. It sidled up to her cheek, where it rubbed its head dolefully against her temple before fluttering to Thorin’s shoulder instead.

The warm softness of the hawk’s head bumped Thorin’s cheek in turn. It felt, strangely, like good-bye.

“Are you leaving us at last, my friends?” Dís asked unexpectedly, her voice hoarse from long silence and loss.

The hawk still on her shoulder crooned a long, sad note and stretched up. She lowered her head to it: it bumped its brow to hers in a peculiarly dwarven gesture.

“Wait before you go, Master Braveclaw,” Thorin said, a thought coming to him. The hawks and the hummerbird turned expectant stares at him. With a few quick commands and some saddlebag-mining in the company, Thorin soon had a strip of parchment cut from an old dispatch, and pen and ink in hand.

‘ _Orcs dead caravan safe come casualties agree Bard -T. Oakenshield’_

The ink dried, he tied it gently around the foot of one of the hawks, who settled patiently on his pommel for the operation. Then Thorin gently bumped heads with each hawk in turn, and watched with some bemusement as they did the same to a regretful Bofur. One of them managed to land on Dwalin just long enough to nip his ear. Then they flew away after the hoverbird.

Dís looked after them, loss keen on her face. But it was something to see an expression of any kind on her. Thorin was almost glad for it.

“Namadith,” he said gently. “There are others here who will grieve with you.”

“I know,” Dís said. And then said no more.

Still, it was something.

It was not the last they was to see of the birds. Two days later, a familiar scream sounded above them. Dís raised her arm just in time for one of the hawks to land on it.

Once more there was something tied around the bird’s leg. This time it was she who unwrapped it.

The message was in the neat handwriting they now recognized as belonging to the halfling.

‘ _Mstr Oakenshield, no thnks necessary. Pls warn dwarf king Bolg is alive. -Yrs, B. Baggins.’_

 


	12. The Elvenking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilba enjoys the hospitality of Beorn; the devil is in the details; the Halls of the Elvenking are reached at last; Thranduil is unwillingly charmed by hobbits (but acts like a tit anyway)

Bilba leaned back on the bench and puffed out a perfect smoke ring. She admired it as it drifted up, tugged by the light breeze. It was the middle of the morning and there were a few clouds overhead, big, puffy things that meandered along like sheep without any destination, content to simply graze and be. The smell of clover hung rich in the air, mingling with the sweet scent of pipe weed. A bee the size of her fist came bumbling by, much too busy to pay attention to a hobbit.

She grinned happily and let her feet swing. She was warm, fed, clean, and rested. It was good to be alive.

Nearby, Beorn was chopping wood. Her opinion of her host had changed since he’d bounded out of the trees at Bilba and Gandalf. They’d been caught by goblins and had been hard-pressed, their backs to a tree, Bilba flailing wildly with her sword while Gandalf did better work with Glamdring. But they were outnumbered badly, and the goblins had wargs on their side to boot. Primula, Rory, Hamfast, and Drogo had done their best to distract their enemies but it was only a matter of time.

And then: a bear. It had come out of nowhere, the size of Bag End, roaring fit to shake the trees. It swept through their attackers like a summer storm. Goblins and wargs had died with appalling quickness. When it turned on Bilba and Gandalf, snarling, Primula had dove at him in a frenzy of protective terror, the rest of the hobbit-birds not far behind.

A second later there’d been a _Man_ standing before them instead: a huge, shaggy, very naked Man, his head thrown back in a roar of laughter.

All in all, Bilba had found her first true skin-changer a disconcerting experience.

Five days later, fed and cared for in Beorn’s odd household, she felt much better about the whole thing. Barring his tendency to pick her up and carry her about on his shoulder at intervals, poke her _very ticklish_ stomach, and occasionally turn into a warg-eating bear, he was actually quite nice.

The birds were enjoying their respite, too. Though Beorn was able to speak to the animals in his household, he admitted he was unable to make out the speech apparently shared by the transformed hobbits and dwarves. Bilba didn’t fully understand his explanation as to why. Still, he was able to make out broadly what the birds _meant_ , which delighted everyone. Primula and the rest of the hobbits had taken an immediate liking to him as a result, constantly swooping about to chatter in his ears. The dwarves, when they'd finally arrived, had taken longer to warm to him, but the relief of being understood by someone else—even if it was only a general sort of understanding—quickly overcame their restraint.

He was attempting to teach Bilba how he understood their meaning, but it was slow going. Hobbits might speak to Yavanna’s creations, but they very few of them had developed the ability to _listen_.

Braveclaw and Quickwing had just returned from delivering her message to this ‘Oakenshield,’ a missive that had poked gentle fun at his lack of manners while passing on the news about Bolg being alive. Gandalf had seemed to think it was important for the dwarves to know. Well, now they knew. From the lack of a reply, it seemed Master Oakenshield had either disagreed or couldn’t be bothered to care.

“No manners,” Bilba said aloud to the hobbits presently keeping her company. She clucked her tongue.

Drogo chirped soothingly. 

“If that’s for my benefit, it’s because I have so few visitors,” Beorn said cheerfully, stumping up with an armful of firewood that he dumped into the lumber box by the door. “But you are looking very comfortable, Little Bunny.”

“It was not at _all_ meant for you, Master Beorn!” said Bilba, dismayed that he should think her so rude. “I was thinking about this ‘Oakenshield’ I was exchanging notes with, though perhaps I should give him some leeway since he recently fought goblins. I concede that might have a souring effect on one’s disposition.” Remembering how Beorn had howled with laughter after his encounter with goblins, she amended doubtfully, "Other people's dispositions, at any rate."

Beorn threw back his head and laughed, just as he had then. He seemed to find a great deal of Bilba’s statements cause for hilarity. Bilba was initially a bit offended, but had decided since that she didn’t mind all that much: after all, she told herself, she would much rather be a source of delight for a skin-changing bear than a source of annoyance. And always excepting the volume, Beorn had a very nice laugh.

“Still, I’m glad my friends are safe,” Bilba said, as Beorn sat down on the bench next to her. She was borrowing his pipe, which she needed both hands to use. She passed it up to him. Hamfast, Drogo, and Rory immediately fluttered up to perch on its stem and squabble about who got to stick their beak into the smoke. “It would have been terrible for Bofur and Bifur to come so far and not see their home again. I wish you could have met them.”

“I am not fond of dwarves,” Beorn said, taking a puff and producing a lopsided smoke ring. Bilba had been trying to teach him how: he found the exercise amusing, though it was going slowly. “They care only about metal and stone. They have no respect for living things, except to make them into dead things that will help them craft more dead things.”

“Yes, but you told Gandalf and me that you didn’t like _anybody_ , as I recall.”

“And so I don’t,” Beorn said equably, smiling down at her. “Except for little bunnies.”

She frowned, an expression that seemed to tickle him. “Hobbits, if you please!”

His chuckle shook the bench. Primula returned to bully Drogo and Rory into a game of chase across the clover, and they flitted off.

“And I never had the chance to ask them for their hair,” Bilba said with regret. At Beorn’s curious glance, she explained, “For the . . . the _shroud_ , you see. Gandalf told me that I’d need to embroider it with the hair of all the races.”

“Dwarves are odd about their hair,” Beorn commented.

“Yes, I know. Or at least— Elrond warned me, before I left Rivendell. He said it wasn’t done among elves or dwarves to ask another for their hair, except for great love between family. Which makes it all very awkward!”

“Family _or_ lovers,” Beorn corrected with amusement, nudging Hamfast away from the smoke. “Not so much, little one. You haven’t the capacity you used to.”

Hamfast reeled and fell off the pipe, only to be caught in Beorn’s broad palm. The hobbit fluted and lay there contentedly on his back, his feet waving.

“Oh dear,” Bilba sighed. “I can’t see myself walking out with elves simply to ask for some hair. It would be quite unfair to them, not to mention the proportions between us would be very strange.”

Beorn shouted with laughter. Bilba immediately turned pink. “It has happened before that I know of,” he said when he had recovered. “Elf and dwarf, halfling and Man. Though neither story ended well, for different reasons than _proportions._ Little Bunny, you are blushing!”

“Well, it’s hardly proper to discuss such things!” Bilba said. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t realize how it sounded until I said it aloud.”

He shook like an earthquake over his mirth. “No elf or Man lovers for you, then? Perhaps a dwarf— or do you have a halfling sweetheart waiting at home for you?”

“No, that I don’t,” she admitted, feeling a gentle pang. She smiled up at Beorn, knowing it was shadowed by sadness. “When I was a ‘tween there were a few, but none since I came of age. There might have been, but I was too busy to pay notice, you see. My father died, and my mother was— well, not _fading_ exactly, not like elves, but it seemed like she took a wound to the heart and slowly bled to death. I’m not sure I would like a love like that. It was wonderful to watch when they were both alive, but after—”

But she could hear the longing in her voice nevertheless.

She blinked quickly, kicking her feet, and sniffed once. Beorn stayed silent. “Perhaps I wouldn’t mind settling down at that. I might like that, someday. My reputation is quite ruined, so I daresay nobody will want me now. But then again, so was my mother’s.” Beorn made a low growling noise. She added hopefully, “Still, she found my father. Not that there are too many hobbits like my father, mind! He was remarkable.” She looked down at Hamfast, who had managed to regain his feet and was snuggling up against her thigh. “The best man I’ve ever known.”

“You deserve the same, Little Bunny,” Beorn said kindly, patting her on the head—just as though she were a little child!—but with such care she didn’t feel like objecting. “A hobbit who runs so bravely after such danger to save strangers is a hobbit who should have the best of mates and not settle for lesser.”

Bilba’s cheeks burned. Despite her embarrassment, she was touched. She cleared her throat. “Yes, well. I have years yet. And really, chasing after hobbits on wings is busy work! I haven’t time to think about this sort of thing now.”

“It’s a very tiring business.”

“Very! But I’m worried about this hair. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I don’t even know what the design is supposed to be for this embroidery!”

Beorn made a humming sound. “That part is easy enough. The names of Nienna, Lady of Mercy, Estë the Gentle, Vairë the Weaver, and Oromë the Hunter. One on each edge of the shroud.”

“In any specific order? What alphabet does one use? And do all five types of hair have to be mixed together? Or does one use only one kind of hair for each name? But then there’d be one left over. There are so many details,” she sighed, “and you don’t even have a recipe book.”

It was one of the first questions she had asked him, when she had gotten over the alarm of their first meeting and grown comfortable in his presence. What were the instructions for the spell? To her chagrin, she was informed that Beorn simply _knew_ it, like experienced hobbit bakers simply _knew_ the proportions of ingredients for their family recipes. She had the feeling that ‘Add enough vanilla until it tastes right’ was well enough when it came to cakes, but problematic when applied to years-long spell-casting.

“You worry too much, Little Bunny,” Beorn said expansively. “The ingredients of the spell you know. The rest will happen as it happens.”

“Gandalf certainly seems to think so. He wants to leave for Mirkwood tomorrow after he gets back from scouting.” She kicked her feet and looked around the meadow wistfully. “I’ll miss it here. It’s like being back in the Shire.”

Beorn patted her head again, then tugged her over to rest against his hip. She surrendered with only a little grumbling. She really was growing quite fond of him. “My home will miss you as well. It will always be open to you and your friends. Bring them back to me when they’re changed back, and I will give them a feast. Even the dwarves.”

Hamfast chirped enthusiastically, struggling to his feet again. Bilba giggled.

Really, she was quite sad about leaving, though some part of her was thrilled at the idea of meeting the wood elves. But Beorn had told them dark stories about the blight afflicting Mirkwood, so the thrill was mixed with anxiety about the danger. There were giant spiders the size of ponies in the woods, she was told, and enchanted rivers that beguiled away memories. And the wood elves were fey and elusive, difficult to find— all in all, she was delighted to discover the next morning that Beorn had decided to come with them.

The hobbit-birds cheered. Even Quickwing and Braveclaw, who had been in a somber mood since their return from the caravan, perked up.

“Only until I deliver you to the elves,” he said affably, stepping out of the house with an enormous pair of saddlebags slung over his shoulders. He’d stripped off his clothes, and was utterly, splendidly naked. Bilba squawked like a strangled chicken and buried her face in her hands, ears burning red. Primula chittered in frank appreciation at the scenery: drat the girl! “Then I’ll turn back. It wouldn’t do to save Little Bunny from orcs and wargs, only for her to be gobbled up by spiders.”

Distracted by his use of ‘her’ when Gandalf had carefully introduced her to Beorn as 'Master Bilbo Baggins,' Bilba surfaced to exclaim, “Good heavens. Do you mean to tell me you knew all along?”

Beorn chuckled. “Secrets kept from two-legs aren’t always secrets from four-legs,” he said. He tapped his nose with a wink that sent Bilba back behind her hands again.

He roared with laughter at Gandalf's huff of chagrinned realization, and mid-laugh turned into his enormous bear form. The saddlebags remained slung over his shoulders. With some wriggling he managed to push them back to his ribs before looking at them expectantly.

“I believe we’re meant to ride,” Gandalf said, quickly recovering from his moment of surprise. They’d ridden Beorn-the-bear once before, when he’d initially rescued them from the goblins and wargs. It was a much less terrifying thing to climb on top of a friend than a stranger, especially now that she knew the odd noises he was making as Gandalf was helping her up was laughter instead of speculation about how she’d taste.

“I can't think how I'm to explain this back home,” she said to Gandalf as she settled in front of him, hands sinking into thick black fur, “Of all the things I thought might happen, it never occurred to me that I'd visit elves by riding a _naked Man_.”

Gandalf laughed. Beorn roared again, and leaped forward.

The speed of a running bear was appallingly fast, even though it hardly seemed to be any effort to the bear at all. The world whipped by until Bilba was quite dizzy. The birds stayed aloft, the dwarves flying high above the less orderly flutters of the hobbits. It seemed almost no time at all before they were at the boundaries of Mirkwood, where Beorn stopped long enough to let the birds catch up.

“From here on out, it might be best for you all to ride,” Gandalf told the birds as they spiraled down. “Even you, Master Quickwing and Braveclaw. There are enchantments in these woods that confuse the minds of travelers. Though your forms may be beasts, your spirits are still that of dwarves and hobbits. There’s no telling what the magic might make of that.”

“Not to mention spiders, ugh!” said Bilba, regarding the dense, dark trees ahead of them with distaste. They felt sick to her, nothing like the friendly trees of the Trollshaws. The sun was blotted out by the thick canopy overhead. “I daresay a normal spider wouldn’t be a problem at all, but a spider the size of a pony must be a very different matter when it comes to webs!”

Whether the precaution was necessary or not, they weren’t to know. Beorn, at any rate, seemed to find no difficulty in keeping to the road underfoot. The pavestones were broken, and in some places completely gone. Bilba had no difficulty in believing that travelers often lost their way. The air in Mirkwood felt thick and smothering, the silence around them oppressive. It was rather like smoking bad pipe-weed, with none of the calm and comfort that came before the sickness of overindulgence. At times her head and stomach churned so much, she almost fell off Beorn altogether. Only Gandalf’s grip on her kept her astride.

At night, they curled up against the warmth of Beorn’s bear form, making meager meals out of the food he’d packed in the saddlebags. Once or twice he roamed off to hunt, returning after a while with unhealthy-looking black blood coating his muzzle and claws. After the first night they didn’t dare make a fire: the light attracted strange bats and moths, which flew into open mouths and ears, and clung stickily to hair and skin until Bilba burst into tears of distress.

She began to lose track of time. The birds seemed no better, huddling under her coat with glazed eyes. If not for Beorn and Gandalf, who both seemed untouched by the forest’s dark magic, they would never have made it through.

It took them almost twelve days of travel before they found the elves—or the elves found them, she was never quite clear. One moment, Beorn was pushing his way through clinging overgrowth. The next, they were surrounded by a bright, white light, which seemed to waver against the haze that had fallen over Bilba’s eyes.

“ _Mithrandir!_ ” cried a silvery voice. And with that, her head suddenly cleared.

They stood in a clearing filled with tall, slim figures dressed in greens and browns, with bows and swords drawn against them. They were beautiful in the way that all elves were, but looking at them, Bilba was reminded of what Elrond had said. _Wilder and less wise_ , he had called them. _Hotter and harder._ She could understand that now. While the elves of Rivendell made her think of long-winding rivers and slow-growing forests, these elves made her think of wildfires and swift storms. She had the distinct impression that these elves were not _safe_.

“After all, it takes all types to make the world,” she told herself, dismayed. “But I’m with Gandalf after all, so I’m probably unlikely to come to harm. Although I wonder what they’ll make of hobbits?”

Behind her, Gandalf made a gruff sound: a _harumph!_ that was worthy of the Old Took himself. “And is this the welcome I’m to receive by the elves of Eryn Lasgalen?” he said grumpily. “Your hospitality has worsened of late, Legolas of the Greenwood!”

At a sign from one of the elves, the rest lowered their weapons. “That was not our welcome to you, but rather our farewell to our previous visitors,” he said, stepping forward. His hair was like gold silk and his face, beautiful even for an elf, was that of one ever on the brink of merriment. He pressed his hand to his breast as he bowed. “ _Mae g'ovannen, Mithrandir,_ and to you as well, Beorn Skin-changer! Long has it been since you visited us last. We are pleased to welcome you into our lands.”

Beorn made a grunting noise that Bilba felt through her legs. “And it is good to see you again, _mellon nin,_ ” Gandalf said, a smile twinkling in his eyes. “Although I hope you shan’t be escorting us out of the wood as firmly as you did your last guests.”

“You are better company than our last,” Legolas said cheerfully, gesturing to the side. For the first time, Bilba saw that several enormous spiders lay dead on their backs at the edge of the clearing. She paled in horror. Spiders the size of ponies, indeed! They were much, much bigger than that. One of those could gobble up an entire family of hobbits without a blink!

When she looked back at the elves, she found that she had attracted their attention. The birds, having roused from their stupor, had started squirming out from under her coat, and the elves watched in wonder and some amusement as they popped out one by one to settle on Beorn's shoulders instead.

“A _perian_!” Legolas said, marveling. “I never thought to see one again this side of the Misty Mountains. And not just one, but five! But how comes it that skin-changers are born to halflings and dwarves? Have we been so isolated in our woods that the world has changed so much around us?”

“Not at all!” Gandalf said. “But it’s more complicated than you think. If you don’t mind, I’d rather we tell it all at once to you _and_  the king.”

There being no particular reason for them to linger, the elves immediately fell in around them. It seemed they were to be an escort to the king. Legolas walked beside them with a red-haired elf named Tauriel, who was apparently a captain of the guard. Bilba listened raptly to the conversation between them and Gandalf, which seemed mostly to do with the encroaching spiders they had just fought and the blight that was spreading from an old fortress in the south called Dol Guldur.

“Radagast brought us word of that evil,” Gandalf said, his face grave. “It was part of my intent to visit there, after my business is done in Erebor. There are those in the White Council who feel it merits investigation.”

This was news to Bilba, and sounded quite alarming. Legolas and Tauriel seemed pleased, however. “We will go with you, if my father permits,” Legolas said eagerly. “Better to strike at the heart of the trouble than to nibble at the edges and hope it does not grow further.”

“As to that, we’ll have to see. I said nothing about _striking_. An investigation is simply an investigation: one looks, one learns, one attempts to come to a conclusion.”

“And with what one knows about wizards, one assumes chaos will follow,” Legolas said, laughing. “Very well! I will not hope for action. But you are still welcome.”

They were not, it transpired, very far from the Elvenking’s Halls. Bilba had not realized that the elves here lived underground: everything she had known of elves had made her assume _aboveground_ , perhaps even _in trees_. But the great, wrought doors that opened for them as they approached were set into a high cliff of stone, and though she and the other hobbits were surprised, neither Gandalf nor Beorn nor the dwarves seemed to find anything amiss.

Legolas was kind enough to explain when she ventured a timid question. “My father had them built when the darkness first came on our Greenwood. In that, he followed the example of Menegroth, King Thingol’s city in Doriath. My people live mostly in the woods, but these halls are a fortress and a meeting place where we can gather for feasting or when we are beset.”

“Your father?”

He smiled. “My father,” he agreed. “I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm; but I am also Legolas Thranduilion.”

“Then you’re a prince!” she realized, dismayed, and attempted a bow. “Bilbo—that is, Bilberry Baggins, at your service! Only I’m not entirely sure how to address a prince.”

The dwarves seated before her on Beorn made a rude noise. Tauriel looked amused, but Legolas laughed. “You address him as you have already, as though he were simply Legolas Greenleaf.”

“The elves of this Age have little use for titles,” Gandalf commented. “They’re quite prideful enough without them.”

“Prideful, perhaps, but with reason. And at least it can be said that we are less stiff-necked than dwarves!” Legolas said with a sidelong glance at the hawks.

Quickwing made another rude noise, but Braveclaw only glared at the elf prince, flexing his claws on the saddlebags.

Whatever Bilba had been expecting from the underground fortress of the elves, it was not the great halls she found herself in. She had imagined something dark and dreary, like the tunnels of the goblins where she’d found her little ring. Instead, she could almost have imagined herself outside in the forest again. The halls were vast, the pillars like trees that rose up in great, graceful arches almost beyond sight. Everywhere there was soft golden light, though she couldn’t tell where it came from.

Primula and the other hobbits launched themselves into the air almost the moment they entered, zipping here and there to investigate but always keeping close as they wound their way deeper into the halls. Bilba quite trembled at the bridges, which rose up unthinkably high and seemed too fragile to suffer Beorn’s weight. Beorn seemed to have no concerns though, and neither did Gandalf or the elves.

“Remember, there’s no certainty that Thranduil will be willing to lend you his aid,” Gandalf whispered down to her while she clutched, white-knuckled, at Beorn’s fur. “It will require charm and tact to convince him. Best you let me do the talking.”

“Talking!” she squeaked. “I’m more concerned with not falling!”

Beorn rumbled a gruff bear laugh. She settled for squeezing her eyes closed and pretending she was much closer to the ground.

Eventually they found themselves on a wide, high platform, before a towering throne. On it sat a pale elf wearing a crown of woodland leaves and flowers. Bilba found herself quite overawed, in a way that even Elrond hadn’t inspired in her. She felt abruptly small and very shabby, an insignificant scrub of a thing next to his cold glory, vast age, and dangerous pride. Thus was Thranduil Oropherion, the last elf king in Middle Earth. And this was her hope for saving her cousins! Her heart did a horrible swooping thing into her stomach and out again.

 _Most_ elves had little use for titles, Gandalf had said. But then there were the rest.

“Mithrandir,” Thranduil greeted. Though his voice was beautiful and calm, Bilba thought she detected in it the same note of despair that crept in hers when her most annoying relatives came to tea. _Oh help, it’s you again_ , it meant.

Despite her best efforts, she giggled. Her nerves were overcoming her. Oh dear.

Thranduil had been greeting Beorn as well, but at her giggle he turned his attention to her. His eyebrows rose fractionally, as though he wasn’t impressed with what he was seeing. She thrummed with anxiety, wound so tightly she marveled she didn’t pop apart with a _bang!_ like one of Gandalf’s firecrackers.

“Ah, let me present to you Mistress Bilberry Baggins,” Gandalf said hastily, dismounting to help Bilba off. “And there’s Mistress Primula Brandybuck, Rorimac Brandybuck, Drogo Baggins, and Hamfast Gamgee. And Master Braveclaw and Master Quickwing. _Not_ their actual names, I fear, but the best we can do at the moment.”

“At your service, Your . . . King Majesty!” Bilba said, and bowed. The lads settled one by one on perches around Bilba and bowed, even the dwarves, though theirs was less deep than the hobbits’. Primula, who seemed to have developed a dismaying level of cheek in her time as a bird, zipped up to hover right in front of Thranduil’s nose and stare admiringly at him.

The elf king’s eyebrows rose even more.

“You have a tale to tell us, Mithrandir,” he said coolly, raising a hand to Primula. She perched on it and tilted her head.

“Yes, well.” Gandalf smiled innocently at him, while Beorn flopped down on his side, utterly unimpressed by royalty and looking amused in a bearish way. “It’s a rather long tale, really. And we’ve been traveling for several days now. Travel does rather dry one’s throat.”

As hints went, it was rather a broad one. But it served its purpose. In a very short while, the elves had brought in a rather nice spread of food and drink, which Bilba nibbled at nervously while Gandalf told the story of Bilba’s travels so far. He was a gifted storyteller, as she already knew. It was something else to hear him relate _her_ travels, however. He had gotten the story of the tunnels and the ring from her during their stay at Beorn’s. Though he left the ring out of the tale for reasons of his own, his version of the rest of it, from her departure of the Shire up to and including a narrative of the goblin attack on the caravan, made her out into quite a heroic adventurer. He even told them about the trolls, displaying Glamdring to murmurs of recognition from some of the court.

She found herself blushing more than once, embarrassed by the figure of bravery and wit he painted in his story. It was quite unrecognizable as her. But the elves seemed to enjoy it tremendously. Looking around, she found that quite a crowd had gathered on the edges of the platform, rapt. Many of the elves glanced at her from time to time, with increasing wonder.

It was all rather dreadful.

Finally he wrapped up. By that time, Bilba and the birds had taken refuge against Beorn, who seemed to find the whole thing entertaining. Even Thranduil had thawed a bit: he had smiled at the trolls and Radagast’s accidental spellcasting, and he’d frowned at the name of Bolg.

“And so I brought her to you,” Gandalf finished up, turning aside to gesture grandly to Bilba. “Nowhere else could she find aid in saving her kinsmen but in the halls of Thranduil Oropherion.”

She reflected that Gandalf really was an irrepressible showman.

But it was her cue, right enough. She straightened to bow again, flushing crossly at the smiles around her as she straightened: Big Folk always seemed to find her good manners amusing. “I hate to impose!”

“And yet you will,” Thranduil murmured.

How _rude_. And yet, the king's bad manners went some way to relaxing her tight knot of nerves. “Not at all,” she said tartly, putting her hands on her hips. “I can certainly find other accommodation, no need to worry so much about me. Thank you very much, Master King Elf. Majesty. Your hospitality has been quite indescribable!”

“But it would be much better if she were here, under your protection,” Gandalf interjected hastily, spying the smile that came and went on the Elvenking’s face so quickly that Bilba did not notice it. “Long ago, I seem to recall, this spell was woven in Amon Lanc. There are none save you and your people now alive who have seen it done before.”

Bilba blinked. Truly? Thranduil seemed to concede the point, though his gaze turned to Quickwing and Braveclaw without enthusiasm. “And the _naugrim_?”

 _Not_ a polite word at all. “Quickwing and Braveclaw are our friends,” she said firmly, to the accompaniment of chirps from the other hobbits and hisses from the dwarves. “Where they aren’t welcome, we aren’t welcome either. Good gracious! We wouldn’t even have this problem to solve if they hadn’t rescued my kinsmen, for my poor hobbits wouldn’t be birds at all. That is to say, they would be quite dead, so there wouldn’t have been any _need_ to turn them into birds.”

“From what I recall, the Greenwood is an ally of Erebor,” Gandalf said.

“An alliance with Erebor is one thing. Unknown dwarves from some equally unknown kingdom running amok in my halls is another thing altogether,” Thranduil said with a glint in his eye.

“As to that, they wouldn’t be _running_ so much as they would be _flapping_ ,” Bilba said, quite unable to help herself. Quickwing and Braveclaw were muttering sourly: she raised her voice to drown them out. “I quite sympathize, Master— Majesty. King. I wouldn’t like uninvited visitors to be opening doors and poking their nose into my private rooms in Bag-End either.”

Thranduil almost smiled, though that glint remained. “I take no issue with your manners, Mistress Baggins. It is the manners of _dwarves_ that I doubt.”

 _That_ produced a squawk of outrage from the dwarves. Gandalf moved quickly to stand between them and the throne, just in time for Quickwing to bounce off the backs of his legs in a thwarted attempt to attack the king. “I’m sure they’ll agree to any flight restrictions you might set,” he said loudly. “They would be _guests_ in your home, after all. And the _guest-rule_ is quite important to dwarves. Why, it’s one of the oldest and deepest traditions of their race!”

His point was taken. The hawks subsided, though they still grumbled.

Thranduil seemed to deliberate for a while, his eyes thoughtfully fixed on Bilba. She had no idea what he was thinking, though she found his gaze rather trying to maintain. “Very well,” he said at last, rising. “You are welcome to stay for as long as you need, Mistress Baggins, together with your kinsmen and friends. We will aid you in your weaving as best we can, though I will not endanger any of my people for your task.”

Relief crashed like a great wave through Bilba, making her realize just how anxious she had been. She beamed at him. “Thank you very much!” she cried, bobbing another bow and then, for good measure, an awkward curtsey as well. The hobbit-birds cheered and swooped up dizzyingly. “Thank you very much indeed! I promise you, we’ll be as quiet as mice. You won’t even know that we’re here!”

“Somehow,” Thranduil said dryly, “I doubt that very much.”


	13. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we pause to visit Erebor; Bilba gets the first one of five; Gandalf visits friends; the situation in the mountain

 

Thráin wandered.

The world was yellow, a gentle golden haze that warmed the corners of his vision and left trails of light curling in great waves as he passed. Thorin was at his side, carping on about something.

The lad needed to learn to speak up. He was mumbling.

It was yet another in an interminable series of ceremonies, one of the endless responsibilities of a king. So. Thráin was accustomed, and resigned. There was little to ceremonies that required his active involvement. The words were a matter of rote, long memorized and stored in the archives of his mind. This one was a funeral for some nobleman, he couldn’t be bothered to remember who. There were dozens of the old crags wandering about Erebor, popping off to the Halls of Waiting as the whim took them. This one was important enough for the Men and Elves to show up, apparently. Irritating buggers.

He remembered Thrór presiding over ceremonies, an awe-inspiring figure of presence and majesty. “The important thing is to dress right and look like you’re thinking lofty thoughts,” he’d told Thráin once, long before the gold-madness had sucked him into its thrall. “It’s up to you what you actually think about to get the right expression. Nobody else will ever know. Your grandfather used to think about cabbages, for some reason. I like designing clocks. Keeps me from falling asleep.”

Well, Thráin was no Thrór or Dáin, but he could look damn impressive after forty-odd years of rule. He set his mind to considering how to improve the vast engines powered by the hot steam chimneys deeper in the mountain.

It was after the ceremony that was the trial. Dwarves came up to him, eager to be seen speaking to the king, demanding recognition or response or approval of one thing or another. They waved their hands about, their rings leaving ghostly trails behind in the air as they passed. Anxiety gripped him, as it had more and more often of late. Their expectations that he recognize them had the same enervating effect his childhood tutor had on him. Old Grani had had a nigh mystical sense for when Thráin hadn’t done his studying, and would invariably force him to stand before his classmates to betray his ignorance and failure to all.

But Thráin was a king now, by Durin. He wasn’t to be bullied by tutors anymore. He drew himself up and scowled at the dwarf bleating at him, sending him off with a few sharp words. Blast him to the Maker if he thought he’d intimidate Thráin, son of Thrór! From somewhere, he thought he heard Thrór sound his approval.

And blast this pointy-nosed lad, secretary, whatever he was, who was hovering about mumbling and being useless. “Be silent, boy, or go make yourself useful. I need a drink.”

He turned away from the lad’s stricken face to catch a complicated expression on one of the Men. Was that disrespect? Anger flared. They were trying to catch him out. Curse their spying, treacherous eyes. By the Maker, they would remember who was king around here, or he’d prove it on their bones!

 

 

 

 

 

“Hm!” Bilba said, trotting through the halls of the Elvenking with Beorn a giant and unabashedly naked escort trailing behind her. “I suppose that could have gone better.”

“You did quite well!” Legolas informed her, a smile in his voice. He was leading them to the guest rooms appointed to her, though it seemed to Gandalf that the prince had taken on the task mostly for the entertainment of watching the reaction of those elves who encountered them. “I foresee that my father will take to you.”

“Take a knife or a sword?” Bilba asked suspiciously.

“You did well,” Gandalf reassured, while Legolas and Beorn laughed unhelpfully. “King Thranduil appreciates novelty, and you’re certainly that.”

“Indeed! There’s nothing quite like being a rare toy from far-off lands for sale in the local shop,” Bilba said with disgust.

“You are much better than a toy, Little Bunny. You are at least a well-made honey cake,” Beorn said, reaching down to pluck her up. He settled her on his shoulder, cheerfully ignoring her paddling legs and outraged protests of, “ _Naked! Naked!_ ” There being nothing for it, she wrapped her fists around his mass of silver-streaked black hair. The proximity to his ear, at least, allowed her to give him the scolding he deserved.

Gandalf, Legolas, and Beorn listened to it with great enjoyment.

“Peace, Little Bunny!” Beorn said at last. “I admit my faults. But clothes are tiresome when I will be leaving shortly.”

She was cut short at that. “So soon?” she said in dismay.

“My friends cannot be left too long without me, and if the goblins and wargs discover I am gone, they will be up to mischief. My neighbors, the woodsmen, have come to depend on my patrols. Never fear! I’ll come visit. You may keep what hair you've pulled out as a memory of me though, my friend. It will do well for your work.”

She untangled her fingers from his mane and peered down at them. Her obvious chagrin at discovering she had indeed yanked out several strands of coarse, thick hair—each long enough to wrap around her waist several times—was only a little appeased by this offer. “Thank you very kindly!” she said, restored to charity towards him, though her face remained a warm and vivid red. “I will take good care of it!”

“Do so!” Beorn said. He bent his head a little closer to her, his voice taking on a conspiratorial note while not reducing in volume at all. “I notice that King Thranduil and Prince Legolas have pretty elf hair. Perhaps you will be in a position to ask them for some, before long?”

Her subsequent sputters, combined with Beorn’s bellows of mirth, sent all the local elves fleeing. Legolas, as princely in nature as he was in name, kindly pretended to be deaf.

Gandalf waited only long enough to see Bilba and her birds settled and Beorn seen off before setting off himself to Dale. “I have words for Thráin. Besides, I must fetch our packs for both Bilba and I to go about our business,” he told Thranduil, who was still in one of his more tiresome moods. “There’s something in them that you must see. An ancient artifact, brought out of Dol Goldur by Radagast. If all went well, the caravan should have left them with King Bard’s household. I can only hope that the dwarves and Men were not fools enough to meddle with a pack marked with a wizard’s seal.”

“We will speak when you return, then,” Thranduil said, regarding him under heavy eyelids. “I wish you fortune with the _naugrim_ , though I doubt you will have it. The sons of their princess were killed by orcs a short time ago, and Thráin falls faster and faster into the gold sickness.”

“That’s ill news on both fronts. I’d been hopeful it would skip him. Thrór was worse than I’d ever seen, at the end. With him as an example, I had hoped better things for his son.”

“You will ever be disappointed if you hope such things with the _naugrim_ , but that is your business. Do not feel the need to hurry on your road.”

“You keep a good watch over my hobbits, and keep a rein on your collecting tendencies,” Gandalf retorted. “I expect them to be all in healthy and about when I return! None of your, ‘ _they were here only a moment ago,’_ and ‘ _perhaps they’re in the pockets of my other robe’_ business with them!”

Thranduil sneered delicately. But there was a ghost of a smile in his eyes when he sent Gandalf on his way with a borrowed horse, by which Gandalf gathered that Bilba had managed to earn the quixotic king’s favor.

Captain Tauriel and some of her guard escorted him as far as the borders of Mirkwood, from whence it was a journey of only a few days to Dale. With some contriving, Gandalf managed to stretch out the journey quite a bit longer than necessary. He strayed off the road several times to visit farmsteads and the many-times descendants of old acquaintances, not all of which were delighted at having a wizard suddenly descend on them right before luncheon. The Grey Wizard was a powerful force in Middle-Earth, but he did like regular meals when he could get them; and he was not above admitting that it tickled him to be thought of as a family heirloom: inconvenient, venerable, and impossible to be rid of.

The tedium of riding helped him think, and the mystery of how and why the enchantment had fallen on the transformed birds occupied him just as much as the curiosity of Bilba’s ring. The first he had spent many enjoyable hours discussing already with Radagast and Elrond, with very little in the way of conclusion. The second, being completely new, he tackled with all the enthusiasm of a hobbit facing a fresh-baked seed cake.

Objects of power were not his domain—his old friend Saruman was the one whose passion was their collection and study—but he was nonetheless one of the Wise. The great crafters of the _Gwaith-i-Mírdain_ had made many lesser rings on their way to creating the Three, the Seven, and the Nine. Nowhere in his memory was there a ring that might make their bearers invisible. He had asked Bilba if he could see it, and been much struck by the reluctance with which she had showed him. The covetous need to touch it and possess it when he had seen it had likewise alarmed him, enough that he had drawn back before he reached out a hand.

Such yearnings were not natural. Not _safe_. Responding to instinct only half understood, he had directed Bilba to hide the ring away and not reveal it or its secrets to any other, friend or no.

He would investigate it further, when he had time. But still, it troubled him.

These musings and more took him as far as Dale. There he found that great city flying banners of mourning, black flags flying along with the colors of King Bard’s house.

The guards at the gate recognized him, and greeted him civilly while a runner sped to bring word to the King. By the time he’d reached the King’s hall in the center of the town, Bard and his household were standing on the steps to greet him.

The last time he’d met Bard, the lord had been little more than a boy, just grown out of the chubbiness of childhood into a gawky but promising adolescence. Since then he had grown into a lean and powerful man, with the unmistakeable stamp of his line in his nose and eyes. Gandalf had had news of his marriage to the lady Thyra and his father’s death. Since then, it seemed, Bard and his lady had been busy: there were three children beside her, two girls and a boy.

Gandalf was pleased. He liked children.

They greeted him courteously, with far more ceremony than Gandalf preferred. Fortunately, Bard’s gentle wife was more hospitable than formal, and quickly moved them inside, where a hearty meal was waiting for them. Since there was no immediate urgency to his errand, Gandalf only bothered to confirm that his packs had been left for him, and wiled away the rest of the meal in entertaining Bard’s children with tales of his adventures—and of Bard as a youngling, sneaking away with Gandalf’s staff to try and magic his horse into a dragon.

Everyone was vasty entertained. Even Bard, he was pleased to see, betrayed a glint of amusement. In his experience, Gandalf had found that kings with a sense of humor were easier to deal with overall, and far better able to weather calamity.

“Your lesson from this,” Bard told his children, as they were being led away by their nurse for the night, “is to be wary of what you do around wizards. Like elves and dwarves, their memories are long, and they rarely forget.”

“Only when convenient!” Gandalf said, while the children giggled. “I remember to the tiniest detail how young Ecthelion once spilled ale on the King of Rohan, but for the life of me I can’t recall whose bag of pipe-weed I borrowed that is now hanging from my belt.”

The children made their courtesies and left. Bard, Thyra, and Gandalf retired to the private family solar. His packs were waiting for him there, and he was pleased to see that his seal on them remained unbroken. “Though not for lack of trying, I’m told,” Bard told him. “The dwarf who left them here told an entertaining story about some curious fellow travelers of his, who wondered what a wizard might find worth carrying about with him.”

“They’d have been disappointed,” Gandalf said comfortably. “Wizards, like normal men, still need soap to wash with and clean clothes to change into. I hope they weren’t too injured.”

“He said nothing of that. But he did leave letters for you—or rather, for your traveling companion. A halfling, he said.” There was curiosity and skepticism in Bard’s face as he leaned forward to pass two folded parchments to Gandalf. “He didn’t think them worth sealing, though I offered.”

Gandalf opened them and glanced through their contents without qualms: there was, indeed, nothing there worth calling private. “I see. A good sort, Bofur! And an offer from Hungan to buy the loom. Hmph. Wishful thinking on his part. Well, I’ll pass them on.”

“But a halfling!” Thyra said. “I thought they were only a tale told to children!”

That made Gandalf chuckle. “Fortunately for Middle-Earth, they are not, though it’s true they’re not much seen in the East. _Hobbits_ , they call themselves, and they’re a remarkable folk. I’m quite fond of them. I’ve left mine with Thranduil, who will either be driven completely mad by him, or else find some way to keep him forever. Or maybe both! When I left, Bilbo was lecturing him on the impropriety of _not knocking_ before entering someone’s room.”

“Lecturing the Elven-king,” marveled Thyra. “Brave hobbit! I’ve always thought Thranduil— not cold, perhaps, but distant and proud. I admit I find him rather frightening. He feels dangerous, though he has ever been a good ally to Dale.”

“And a good friend,” Bard said staunchly.

Gandalf chuckled. “Hobbits have no use for kings or princes, or even lords for that matter, having none themselves. As for Thranduil, I wouldn’t call him distant! Only in the way elves can seem to mortal Men, being wary of growing to care for beings who can be born, live, and die in what to them is a blink of an eye.”

“They sound like remarkable beings, hobbits,” Thyra said. She sounded a little wistful. “I would have liked to meet him. There are rumors about him all about Dale.”

“Rumors about Bilbo?”

“About halflings,” Bard amended, and a little line folded between his brows. He opened his mouth, as though to say something else, and then closed it, shaking his head.

Gandalf, eyeing this, said shrewdly, “There’s something here you don’t like.”

Bard looked up, rueful, and admitted, “Halflings are considered magical beings, hereabouts, like faeries and the like. There are old wives tales about the good luck bits of them will bring one—treasure, true love, that sort of thing. The magistrate tells me there are hawkers selling what they claim are vials of powdered halfling bone and blood. For virility, apparently, and good luck. I’ve ordered they put a stop to it.”

“Indeed!” Gandalf said, frowning. “I’ll thank you kindly to keep doing so! There are always fools who’ll treat other thinking creatures as though they were merely bits and bobs. I’d best warn Thranduil to keep him close.”

“Although if he wants to visit Dale, send word. We can set a guard.”

“I will! Though knowing Thranduil, he’ll quickly grow jealous of his very own hobbit and refuse to let Bilbo out of his sight altogether. He’s an entertaining little fellow. I’m quite fond of him.”

Having thus confounded Bard and Thyra, who under no circumstances could imagine Thranduil being described as an ‘entertaining little fellow,’ he leveled a quizzical look at the two of them and said, “I noticed mourning banners flying when I approached Dale, but you wear no mourning clothes yourselves. If I’ve intruded on some private grief, you conceal it well.”

Bard shook his head. “Not a grief of our own, though we had a strong affection for them. Erebor’s young princes were slain by orcs near the Misty Mountain. Thorin’s heirs: the sons of Princess Dís.”

“Fíli and Kíli,” Thyra supplied sadly. “They were kind princes, and good-hearted. Dale mourns with Erebor. They visited often. Our children especially take it ill. The princes used to play with them.”

“There were no bodies to lay to rest, so their tombs are empty. You missed the funeral by only a fortnight. Prince Legolas came to the funeral on behalf of his father.”

Gandalf sighed and sat back in his chair. “He must have left right after I did. How fares King Thráin?”

Unease clouded Bard’s face, and Thyra’s too. “He mourns,” Bard said, and then closed his mouth.

“A word that can cover any number of things,” Gandalf pointed out. “Come now! I am Gandalf, and Gandalf is me. I carry the secrets of Men, elves, dwarves:even hobbits! What you say to me need go no further.”

“By which you mean, ‘ _say your piece and don’t waste my time,’_ ” Bard said with a glimmer of a smile.

“Now you sound like a dwarf. A hobbit would wrap the sentiment in finer linen, but mean the same thing.”

“I prefer plain speaking to the prettifying of diplomacy,” Bard admitted. “Very well, then. There have been rumors for years that Thráin has the gold-sickness of Thrór. That means nothing: those stories have been about since the days of my grandfather’s rule, and there was no sign of it when Thráin’s queen was laid to rest. And yet, twenty years later, we saw it with our own eyes at the funeral for the princes.”

He gestured to his wife, who said in her quiet voice, “He didn’t look at the princes’ tombs or any of the mourners. Only their jewelry, and their adornments. And when he wasn’t looking at them, he was staring at the jewels that he wore, as though bewitched.”

“That could mean many things,” Gandalf said. “Grief can make any Man or dwarf look elsewhere than their loss.”

“But those dwarves closest to him—his advisors—they knew it,” Thyra said with certainty. “They were uneasy, and for more than the politics of succession. They walked on eggshells around the King, but never crossed behind him. They never whispered where the King could see them. When they spoke to him, they always introduced themselves and then gestured with the hands that had the most rings on them. These were dwarves who feared a suspicious king, one that would need only the smallest cause to turn on them.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose. “You are more observant than many, and wiser than most, Queen Thyra,” he said in respect.

“She is a greater treasure than any in Erebor,” Bard said, reaching out to clasp her hand, his grim face softening.

She blushed, but the look she returned to her husband was warm with love.

“This is ill news though,” Gandalf said heavily. “Thrór’s madness was bad enough. A second king lost to it could break the line of Durin altogether. I suppose I must go and see how bad it is— or at least pay my respects to King Thráin. There’s mischief at work here. A darkness spreading in Mirkwood, orcs coming down from the Misty Mountains, madness in Erebor:something threatens the east. I only hope that these are all coincidence!”

 


	14. The Business of Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nori catches up with old friends; Gandalf pays a courtesy visit to Thrain; Thorin speaks with Gandalf and learns of the obstreperousness of wizards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terrible at responding to kudos or comments unless there are direct questions in them, and even then I am horribly untimely. However, rest assured that I appreciate every one of them. They help keep me motivated to continue, even when I'm at the point of loathing everything I have ever written, am writing, or ever will write. So if you've ever left a comment that I didn't respond to, please accept my heartfelt thanks! I am deeply grateful!

“Nah, I don’t believe in coincidence,” said Bofur, slamming down his tankard. He wiped froth off his mustache, twirling the ends, and added, “It was Mahal’s will, is what it was. Who’d want a world with Bofur, son of Bomfur in it? Couldn’t be done.”

“There'd be more ale in it for the rest of us,” Nori complained, checking the pitchers on the table until he found one still full. “The next time you see fit to arrange Mahal's will though, keep the heirs out of it, aye? The tremors from that outing'll take years to settle down.”

The Hammer and Anvil was one of Dale’s mixed pubs, meaning it was pleased to serve folk no matter what their size or shape—but as the name suggested to the initiated, it was more pleased if those sizes and shapes happened to be more along dwarven lines than not. It made its preference clear to the ignorant by making sure its furnishings were scaled to dwarf bodies and dwarf strength, and serving hearty portions of greasy food with nary a fork nor spoon in sight. There were a few Men in the pub, but never any Elves; and all in all, the pub’s habitants preferred it that way.

For dwarves who wanted a little quiet conversation without the rowdy violence or curious ears of the common room, a private room was easy to come by. Nori had paid for the room, Bifur and Bofur had paid for dinner, and now all that was left was to smoke pipes and catch up on news after decades of letters and the rare, arranged encounters in towns across Middle-Earth.

Bofur grinned at his old friend Nori. In private as he was, Nori didn't hesitate to grin back. The cousins were a feast for the eyes after near forty years away from home. For all Bofur’d been about Nori’s business as well as his own while he’d been out and about, it was still good to have them back. Bifur, though less demonstrative than his more outgoing cousin, softened enough to kick Nori's chair gently over. The injured warrior’s memories were coming back sharpish, now that he was back in the mountain. 

"Trouble?" he asked Nori, in the High Khuzdul he was now limited to.

"Nothing I can't handle," Nori said, picking his chair up and reseating himself. 

“Been hearing some things since I got back,” Bofur said. “It’s a right mess up there, ain’t it? With the— losses.” His customary smile faded. .

“Maker keep the lads,” Nori said, with an honest pang for the lost princes. “The halls is a bag of oiled weasels. It's worse’n usual, but nothing you’d drop a jaw at. Every eye’s on Thorin to see which way he’ll go, seeing he hasn't named his heir yet. Bets are on between Dáin and Dís."

"Dáin's probably shedding all his hair at that notion," Bofur said wisely. His eyes narrowed. "The toffs aren't badgering Lady Dís, are they?"

Nori snorted. "Not after the first one tried. Hair can grow back, but _that_ one won't be regrowing his thumb anytime soon." He managed not to look too self-satisfied at that. At Bifur's quiet chuckle, he managed a look of sanctimonious innocence. "It were an accident, I swear. It was Dwalin, anyhow."

"Barely recognized him without his crest," Bofur commented. "You might've warned a body that he'd shaved."

"He says it fell out." Nori snickered. "Probably from all the work trying to keep the most ambitious ‘dams out of Thorin's bed. Not sure I’d give a toss for what Prince Doom and Gloom’d do to any cow stupid enough to take the risk these days. But the money flying around in bribes to the servants this past month's enough to sink a barge.”

“Not surprising. He’s got another forty-some years afore he can go looking. That’s a lot of time for a body to trick him into marriage. Or for him to get tired of waiting, for that matter.”

Bifur grunted. “Whoever it is, it might not be a marriage tie, or one that ends up in heirs. Especially not when his One’s so much younger.”

“He’ll wait,” Nori said without hesitation. “Dynastic uncertainty’s what you get when you’ve got a pack of Mahal-loving _romantics_ as your ruling line, Durin save us.”

Fewer and fewer dwarves were born each year who knew they had a One somewhere, unborn or waiting—or in the worst of cases, already dead. But the promise of a One, the person who would challenge a dwarf to be greater than he was, to become the greatest he could be, was one of Mahal’s most precious gifts. It was held as sacred as the deepest of the stone lore. Those of Durin’s line were always born knowing they had a One fated for them, and Thorin was no exception. He had always felt the ragged places in his life where another would fit, though how it would fit he had no way of knowing.

It was almost forty years ago that the Crown Prince had felt his One first waking to the world, the flash of agony in those empty places of his soul so strong that it had brought him to his knees. Then had come a wave of such joy that he had wept. It had been a spectacularly public occasion: the prince had been standing beside his father, performing his duty for the monthly public audience day, when any and all gentlebeings could approach the throne for judgment or hearing. No dwarf could fail to recognize the signs of a One being born. The word had flown through Erebor faster almost than thought. The rest of the day had been lost to city-wide celebrations while Thorin rested in the arms of his family, dazed with euphoria.

It was the first bright note in the evil times after Azanulbizar, when all dwarves had mourned their losses and struggled to rebuild their once great people. The memory of that joy, Nori knew, had sustained Thorin through many dark days since. Which was all well and good for him. All it gave Nori was a right awful headache.

Thirty-eight years was still mid-childhood for a dwarf. Thorin was more than a hundred years older than his One. With such an age disparity, odds were against it being a romantic match, which every dwarf but the willfully obstinate Thorin knew damn well. It was inappropriate for him to search for that missing piece of himself to confirm either way, given whoever it was was under-age—but that did nothing to stop his soul’s yearning to be complete.

And Nori, well. He didn't hold with notions of 'appropriate' when it was his Prince's safety and happiness on the line.

If Thrór’s One hadn’t died, public sentiment held, the gold-sickness would never have hit him. Then again, Thráin’s One was still alive and kicking, though his identity was unknown outside the royal family and a select few. In Nori’s opinion, the king was well on his way to gold-sickness, living One or no. Nori was a rational dwarf: he didn’t hold with the mysticism surrounding Ones. People like him didn’t have the luxury of believing in shite. But after three generations of madness in the royal family, even a rational dwarf would start grasping at straws.

“Sorry I wasn’t able to find anything in Ered Luin,” Bofur said more quietly, drawing Nori’s attention back. “You’re sure that’s where Thorin said he was feeling it?”

Nori nodded. “Nothing about that widow you heard tell of?”

“Pretty sure that widow's a bit of wishful thinking on somebody's part.” Bofur shrugged and held up his empty hands. “Bifur and me scouted around the mountains, following some tales of farmsteads dwarves had set up around the slopes. Risky business. Nothing so bad as orcs or goblins, but there’re strange beasts on those mountains, dark ones.”

“They’re strong enough to rip a dwarf in half. They've done so, for that matter,” Bifur said.

Bofur volunteered, “Sometimes the elves down south come up and hunt them, but a widow on her own with a young one'd be tempting fate.”

“Successfully, so far,” Nori said sourly.

“Would _he_ tell you if something'd changed?”

“I’d know,” Nori said with confidence. Close-mouthed Thorin could be, and what he gave away about what he was feeling could fill a thimble, but after fifty years of service he knew his Prince.

Bofur rubbed the back of his neck, looking rueful. “Sorry, lad. I was hoping to be able to find you better news. Any news,” he amended, at Bifur’s snort.

“Ah, it isn’t so bad. If I can’t find the Prince’s One, neither can his enemies,” Nori said, with an optimism he was in no way feeling. “I’ve other agents looking, anyway.” Though nowhere near as many as he’d like. Information was harder to get from the West. Beyond even the inconvenience of distance, there was a strange opacity to the happenings out there. Nori had suspicions about why, but he hadn’t the time to chase every gleam to its gem. “You’re rejoining the teams in the Fifth Shaft?” he asked instead, .

Bofur shrugged, scratching under his hat. “I might, at that. Although now Bifur’s back, I’m thinking maybe it’s time to open that shop we been talking about all these years.” He brightened. “Picked up some interesting toy notions during my travels.”

“You could try working for private mine holders. Better pay.”

“Aye, but I’d not trade a private owner’s pay for their notion of safety. Remember that orc-sausage, Magar son of Halgar? He’s gone and bought the Half-Screw Tunnels from Vardin. I pity the miners who take that one on.”

“I thought those tunnels were miles deep in bat shit.”

“Oh, aye. But Magar swears he’ll be finding gold in there once he has it hauled out. It’d take them near on twenty years to clean out all the crap, and that’s assuming he finds someplace willing to take it.”

“The bats will keep coming back. They’ve been there for centuries. Not like Magar to speculate on something like that.” Nori’s eyes unfocused as he considered. “That old screw’s never made an unprofitable decision in his life. Last I heard, he was trying to buy up shares in the Iron Hills.”

Bofur shrugged. “Odds are the miners he hires will end up with black-lung and burns, given his record. That’s not the life for me. I’ve a mind to try holding my nadgers in my own hands for a while. Being settled in our own shop’d be a nice change after all that hither and to-ing these last few years. And it’d do Bifur no harm either,” he added. “He’s always been a dab hand at whittling.”

And the stability of seeing the same faces all hours of the day would help that wounded mind heal further, Nori knew. He acknowledged Bifur’s ironic glance, privately admitting to the sharp pang of disappointment. Bofur’d been invaluable gathering intelligence outside of Néru’s knowledge or purse strings, competent though the Spy-master was. As for Bifur, before the axe that clove his head in two, he'd been one of the sharpest dwarves Nori had met. Only Dís and Nori himself had been shrewder. Not for the first time, Nori harbored a treasonous wish that Thrór had died years earlier than he had.

If he’d known then what he knew now, Nori would have happily had a hand in arranging it, too.

“I suppose that means you’ll be stepping out of the Game then,” he said, pushing away unproductive regrets.

Bofur’s eyes twinkled. “No saying one way or another,” he said. “You never know where my wandering feet might take me. They might've took me past Olag at the butcher’s this afternoon, who might have had a thing or two to tell a curious body about a strange contract come his way.”

He slid a clumsily scribbled piece of hide across the table at Nori, who glanced at it. A meeting tomorrow evening in Dale. “Olag?”

“You remember his grandfather, Destrel.”

Nori did. “The Man arrested me once,” he said nostalgically.

Bifur cracked a laugh. Bofur guffawed. “The grandson’s mined from the same seam. Makes _his_ living on bounties and hunting. He’s made a name for himself, by all accounts. His grandfather remembered Bifur and me to him, apparently.”

Destrel had been a useful contact when Nori was setting up his own spy network for Thorin. A cold Man, but an honest one, with ears on the seamier side of the Law. “I’ll meet him,” Nori said, tucking away the note. “I can always use another good ear. If he works out, I’ll see you get paid for it. You can use it towards starting your shop.”

“There’s a gorgeous thought, from a gorgeous dwarf,” Bofur said appreciatively. “But the need don’t arise. Didn’t I tell you? Lady Dís gave Bifur some funds to start out with, her remembering him from Lord Víli’s command.”

“ _Did_ she?” Nori regarded Bifur with new speculation. Bofur’s cousin was still a fine figure of a dwarf. His courtier’s Khuzdul had been known to make dwarrowdam trou' drop like rocks. He knew how to keep his own counsel, and even after everything, had a soul as gentle as Bofur’s. And the axe did give him an air of danger and tragedy: just the sort of thing to attract a female. A noble one. Who might, when the worst of her grief passed, be needing a bit of joy to keep her feet pinned to stone.

Bifur looked back at him, his eyebrows lowering. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he growled, “forget it.”

“Weren’t thinking nothin’,” Nori said self-righteously. “I _never_.”

 

  
  


 

Gandalf stayed that night in Bard’s house, and over breakfast told some more stories to entertain the children. After breakfast, he set off for Erebor, leaving the packs behind him to be picked up on the way back. As at Dale, the guards of Erebor recognized him. He passed the general marketplace almost unnoticed—there were plenty of Men there for trade, and the occasional elf—but by the time he had reached the fourth level, he was a tree in a field of stumps and drawing all eyes.

The marks of deep mourning were everywhere. It accounted, he hoped, for the uneasy tension that seemed to only deepen the higher in the mountain he went.

The audience chamber was just as he remembered it, overdramatic in a way even elves couldn’t manage. Thráin sat on his throne, the Arkenstone an annoyingly distracting blaze of light over him. In the years since they’d last met, his hair had turned grey. More disturbingly, he was weighed down with mithril and gold, perhaps in concession to his rank. But when he had been prince and the gold-sickness had been heavy on Thrór, Crown Prince Thráin had worn almost no jewelry, regarding it with dread and the unspoken fear that the sickness lay dormant in him as well.

Now it was the new Crown Prince who went unadorned. There were threads of silver in his long hair, but it and the clasps of his braids were the only leavening of his somber black armor with its chasings of Durin blue. Thorin Oakenshield stood by the throne, watching Gandalf approach with hard blue eyes. His beard was trimmed close to his jaw in mourning, not lavish in the manner of most Longbeards.

“Greetings Thráin, son of Thrór, son of Dáin, King Under the Mountain! And Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór,” Gandalf saluted, in the High Khuzdul that Aulë had taught him in Ages past. “I greet you in this time of sorrow, and grieve with you for the loss of your kin.”

There was nothing of madness in Thráin’s eyes when he bowed his head in recognition, though his gaze was distant. Not entirely surprising for one grieving lost kin, nor one greeting a wizard he had last met and quarreled with forty years ago. “Tharkûn. I had heard that you were in the East. What brings you here?”

“Wizard’s business,” Gandalf said, leaning on his staff to regard the aged dwarf and his son with carefully concealed pity. Thráin looked older than his years:fate had never been kind to the line of Durin. Aulë had made them to be strong and endure. Had he foreseen how direly they would need that strength? “Nothing to do with you or yours—or so I thought when I began to travel East. But coming over the Misty Mountains, I learned things that you should know, and so I've come to share them.”

“Ill news,” Thráin said wearily. “You are ever the bearer of bad tidings.”

“As is the way when one frequently comes in advance to prevent the bad things from ever happening.”

“And yet they happen all the same. You’re like a crow, circling over the battlefield before the fighting begins.”

“Now _that_ is hardly courteous,” Gandalf said without heat, “or particularly original. More kings than you can imagine have called me some variation of the same. But I wasn’t sent to Middle-Earth to be a friend only in fair weather.”

“Then you come timely,” Thorin said for the first time. His voice was deeper than his father’s, though as proud. And, regrettably, more sardonic. “For the weather is foul indeed, wizard.”

Gandalf grimaced. “More than you know, Prince Thorin. Bolg lives.”

“So your halfling wrote,” Thorin said, unmoved. “But I do not know this creature, that I would trust his eyes. Unless it was you who spied him?”

A keen glance fixed Thorin. _Creature_ , was it? “It was Bilbo, but he has sharp eyes that I trust. Besides which, he was not the one who knew Bolg, That was I, recognizing him from the description. The eye that Fundin Farinul cut out was memorable, and even if I hadn’t recognized him, the goblin who was speaking to him called him by name. There is no doubt. But even before that, I suspected.” Gandalf turned his attention back to the king, whose attention, disturbingly, appeared to have drifted elsewhere. “There is a bounty placed on the line of Durin, Thráin. On both sides of the Misty Mountains the word has spread. For you and your heirs: Thorin Oakenshield, the Lady Dís, for her sons Fíli and Kíli—“

Thorin stiffened, rage darkening his eyes. Thráin refocused abruptly with a frown.

“—For Dáin Ironfoot, his daughter Ylis and his son Thorin Stonehelm, for Fundin’s sons Balin and Dwalin, for Gróin and his line— a price for each, omitting no member of the greater or lesser branch. I encountered a group of brigands in the Wild Lands who bore this,” Gandalf said, fishing a rolled up hide from his robes to hand to Thráin. Thorin took it in his father’s stead, unrolling it to stare blankly at the writing. “Do not try to read it! You will not succeed. That is the Black Speech, the language of evil.”

“ _Brigands_ had this?”

“Yes, brigands.” Gandalf puffed a small chuckle at the memory. “They thought I was a vagabond. They were lying in wait to catch two young lions, and caught something else entirely.”

Thráin said, “‘Two lions?’”

Gandalf inclined his head. “They had word that the princes would be crossing the Misty Mountains. They thought to catch them on the other side when they were weary from travel and their guard down. If the goblins had known three of Durin’s line were in the mountains a few weeks past, you would have had more than three hundred to deal with, Thorin. The entire mountain would have emptied itself.”

“I would have thought there’d be few left in those mountains, after the war,” Thorin said harshly. “They breed like maggots.”

“Another unoriginal image, but remarkably apt.”

“Is this what brought orcs down on my sister-sons? News of their travel?”

“It may be. Unless we ask Bolg or the Great Goblin himself, there’s no way of knowing. I would advise you to send a raven to Dáin and take proper precautions yourselves. The bounty is enormous, and news of it will spread. Greed has turned the coat of more than a few. Bolg will not care if the one who claims it is an orc or not, so long as the proof is good.”

Thráin gestured with a dismissive hand, his attention apparently drawn by the gleam of light across his rings. Gandalf regarded him sadly. “It will be done,” Thorin said, as though Thráin’s gesture had intent behind it. So Thráin had done for Thrór in the early and middle stages of his madness, before Thrór’s jealousy and suspicion that all were after his gold had made such support dangerous for even his family’s necks.

Gandalf wondered how much of the shadow under Thorin’s eyes was due to grief, and how much was from the early hints of gold-sickness in his father. Durin’s ring was visible among the glittering array on Thráin’s fingers. He had already warned Thráin after Azanulbizar about the dangers of wearing it, apparently to no avail. There was little more he could do.

Feeling the burden of his many years on him, Gandalf finished the conversation, making his condolences again for the loss of the young princes, and bowed his way out. He was outside the audience chamber, asking a guard to escort him to visit his old friends Néru and Gróin, when Thorin emerged, wearing a frown and summoned him with a pointed look and tip of the head. Gandalf obligingly followed him through the great hallways until they reached the royal wing. From there, they went to Thorin’s chambers. Once upon a time these were Thráin’s, when he was Crown Prince. Gandalf and he had had many friendly discussions there, when the then prince was younger.

In fact, Gandalf could remember having conversations with Thorin’s namesake in this selfsame study, over eight hundred years ago. There was something to be said, he reflected, for reusing names in a family line. It made fewer names for him to bother remembering.

“Well?” he said, when Thorin had directed him to a chair and poured a glass of red wine for him. “What would you have of me, Prince Thorin?”

Thorin lingered over pouring his own wine, deliberate in his stoppering of the bottle and his inspection of the quality before going to stand before the fire. He considered his glass a moment, frowning still. “Your hawks aided us,” he said abruptly. “In the mountains, when we battled the goblins.”

“Did they?” Gandalf said innocently, and pulled out his pipe to start filling it. His wine was already gone: dwarves were mighty quaffers of ale and mead, but when it came to wine, they were remarkably stingy with their cups. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Did they tell you the story? They saw my company traveling, I suppose, and brought your message to us instead of to Master Bofur.”

“Not _my_ message. For that, you may thank Bilbo’s quick wits.”

“And I suppose he asked the hawks to find help for the caravan?”

“No, as to that, you can credit Masters Quickwing and Braveclaw themselves.” He peered up beneath lowered brows to regard Thorin. The prince looked halfway caught between annoyance and intrigue, a not unusual expression for princes and kings required to interact with the Grey Wizard. He smothered a grin. “They are not your common birds, in case you did not notice. They do what they choose, and have minds of their own. Think of them like the ravens of Ravenhill, though without the tongues for the Common Speech.”

“And are they loyal to a crown, like the ravens?”

“That, Prince Thorin, is a very good question,” Gandalf said thoughtfully. He lit his pipe with a finger and puffed until the embers took.

Thorin waited for a while, then asked impatiently, “And is there an answer?”

Gandalf blinked at him. “There may well be, but I don’t know it. I know the tongues of many creatures, but the language of Bilbo’s birds is quite beyond me.”

“Bilbo’s birds!” Thorin looked briefly disconcerted. “The halfling’s? I thought they were yours.”

“Whoever told you that?”

After another short pause, Thorin admitted, “None did. Master Bofur said they belonged to no one, but with a wizard about— I should not have assumed. But if they belong to the halfling—“

“They do not _belong_ to anyone,” Gandalf said severely, “nor does any other bird or beast in Middle-Earth. When I say ‘Bilbo’s birds’ I simply mean that it is Bilbo who is friends with them. It is Bilbo who cares for them and, I think I can safely say, they who care for Bilbo.”

“Do they speak with him, then? Your halfling?”

Gandalf frowned. “You must learn curb this passion for ownership. _My_ halfling, as you call him, speaks for them when he can, but whether they speak with each other: that’s yet another good question I have no answer to.” He eyed Thorin critically. “You’re very curious about Yavanna’s business. Why do you ask?”

Thorin sighed and took a seat opposite Gandalf’s, frowning again. Like many in the line of Durin, his looks were not—by dwarf standards at least—attractive _._ By the standards of almost every other race however, his face was harshly handsome, and almost offensively noble. Not for the first time, Gandalf marveled over Aulë’s quixotic sense of humor.

“My sister, Dís,” Thorin said stiffly, as though picking his words with care. “She has been—grieving. Not since her One and our brother died at Azanulbizar have I seen her so. She does not sleep. She barely eats or drinks. She does not respond when we speak to her: it is as though her body lingers but her soul has gone on ahead to the Halls of Waiting to be with her sons and her husband.

“She rode with us to the Misty Mountains, to seek news of Fíli and Kíli.”

“ _Did_ she?” Gandalf interrupted, surprised.

“I could not turn her back. She had the right, and who was I to deny her? She fought with us to defend the caravan.” His brief flash of smile was not happy, but it was proud. “None fought better than she did. We could have sat on our hands and left the fighting to her. The orcs could have been defeated by the strength of her axes alone. But afterwards—“

He sighed, sitting back to rest his back against his chair. The fingers of one hand ran across his lip, as though to pluck the right thoughts out for sharing. “She spoke only once after that. When she did, I thought it meant that she would let us grieve with her. I was wrong. She gets worse, not better.

“But the birds, the hawks—she reacted to them when they were with us. They seemed to know that she was lost. They stayed with her, and I thought they comforted her. When she spoke last, it was to them. I had hoped: if they were with you, or if you could bring them to keep her company, perhaps they could pull her out of this silence of hers.”

He fell silent himself. Gandalf regarded him with interest. “You have changed, Prince Thorin,” he observed. “The last time I met you in Erebor, you would not have told me this. Or been so courteous to an old man.”

Thorin did not flush, but there was discomfort in his face for those who were as experienced in reading dwarves. Still, he met Gandalf’s gaze squarely. “I was young and foolish,” he admitted quietly. “I did not recognize good council when I heard it. I felt the call of Khazâd-dum and glory, and didn’t think of the cost. Nor did I realize the price we’d pay would be so high. My father was wiser than I.”

“Yes, he was.” Gandalf sighed. “I regretted that day.” He thought back to that quarrel, when Thrór’s obstinacy had enraged Gandalf enough for him to let slip his tight bonds he kept on his Istari power. Though there had been no true threat, Thráin had thrown himself between them to protect his father and king. It was an unenviable position for the then Crown Prince: torn between his awareness of the disastrousness of Thrór’s ambition, and his loyalty and love for his father and king. Thorin had joined him in facing down Gandalf, but his mind had been wholly set on reclaiming Moria for the dwarves.

“All dwarves regret that day,” Thorin said, and this was plain speaking indeed! But there was sharp guilt and grief in his face. “If I had been wiser, and less rash—“

Gandalf huffed. “And if I had been more patient, and Thrór less blinded by gold-lust and ambition—! Let us have none of _ifs_. It’s done now, and who’s to say whether he would ever have been swayed?” He turned a frown to his pipe. “And on the subject of gold-sickness, and your father—“

Thorin raised a hand to cut him off. “I will hear no word against my father,” he said in a hard voice.

“I had thought to speak _about_ rather than _against_ , but I think you see well enough without my pointing out the obvious,” Gandalf said shrewdly.

Thorin’s face didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eyes that satisfied Gandalf.

He nodded to himself. “I will tell you, then, what I told Thráin long ago on the field of Azanulbizar. The ring of Durin is a treasure of your house, but it is a cursed treasure. A darkness rises in the East, some evil mischief that perhaps has some hand behind it, and I think the ring is responsible for more corruption than you know.”

Thorin stiffened. “We are dwarves, created by Mahal. We cannot be brought low by evil devices like Men or elves.”

“You cannot be transformed into wraiths, perhaps. But you can be corrupted. No, hear me!” Gandalf said hastily, interrupting what looked to be heated words from Thorin. “Sauron’s magic was treacherous. He was the canniest and most powerful of the servants of Aulë before he turned to Morgoth. It was ever his way to take what was best about a spirit and twist it to evil. I cannot prove it, but I’ve long suspected that the ring takes your people’s love of metal and shaping, and corrupts it into the gold-sickness of your line. Why else is it only the greater line of Durin so afflicted? Why only the kings and never their children unless they take the throne?

“I urged Thráin to reject the ring when it came time for him to rule, to lock it away and never wear it. But he saw it as a symbol of his rule, and would not do it. I saw it on his finger earlier. He wears it, against all wisdom!”

“It is come to us from Durin himself. Erebor is great because of its power.”

“That may be, though I think the labor of your people has something to do with that!” Gandalf said tartly. “But there is another thing to think on: those rings answer to the Ruling Ring. They attract evil.”

“The Ruling Ring has been lost for an Age,” Thorin said, his anger rising.

“Lost it may be, but that does not make it any less powerful. Only a fool ignores a warning of danger simply because he does not see it for himself.”

“And what would you have me do? Wrest the ring from my king’s hand? Give a treasure of Erebor—of my people!—to you, wizard? Perhaps you think to use its power for yourself?”

Gandalf sighed, sinking back in his chair. “No. Hardly that. I simply seek to warn you, Prince Thorin. Be wary and watchful. If you could convince your father to leave off wearing it, it would be better stored away in your treasure vaults. Its influence might wane: but I would promise no cures, and it would still call to evil.”He shook his head, resigned. “I can only advise you, and hope that you choose to be wiser than he.”

It seemed as though Thorin had more to say, but he pressed his mouth into a thin white line and wrestled visibly to control his temper. It was some minutes before his fists unclenched, and he was able to say with careful calm, “I will consider your words carefully, wizard, and treat them as they deserve.”

“In other words, you’ll wish me to the slag pits of Ered Luin and ignore my very good advice,” Gandalf said dryly. “Well! Let it be, for now. You were asking about a visit from Masters Braveclaw and Quickwing for your sister.”

Thorin’s face darkened, anger flashing again in his eyes. “If you think to force me to do your bidding by holding my sister’s happiness—“

“Peace! You’re far too hasty. I had no such intention. I doubt it would work anyway,” Gandalf said, with a small smile that won no answering glimmer from Thorin. “I will pass on your request for them to visit. Or if you don’t trust me—no, I thought not—you could write them a letter, which would do just as well.”

“They read?” Thorin asked skeptically.

“Yet another good question!”

This time, Thorin huffed in something like amusement, albeit a grudging sort. “I see my father was right about you, when he said you were like elves: saying both ‘yes’ and ‘no.’”

Gandalf’s eyes gleamed through pipe-weed smoke. “The proper saying is, ‘Ask not the elves for advice, because they will say both yes and no.’ Well, I have given you advice, and you will consider it carefully and treat it as you think it deserves. But if you write a letter to the hawks, Bilbo will be the one to receive it. So mind you are civil!”

 


	15. The Troubles of a Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin confers with his counselors; the unfinished vengeance of Fundin's sons; the thorny problem of succession

 

For long minutes after Gandalf left, Thorin stayed in his study and stared at the fire.

There was no wisdom to be found in its depths. Nor was there any calm. But for those few minutes, he had quiet to blunt the edges of his anger, and tend to the raw wound of his grief. The business of Erebor never stopped. Thorin had grown used to ignoring his turmoil while he went about his duties. It was in times like this, when there were no eyes on him, that he unlocked the chains on his heart and let it free to breathe. If he did not, it would overwhelm him entirely. In no other way could he survive.

It was at moments like this that he missed his brother Frérin with an ache that was still, after all these years, almost physical. In the years before Azanulbizar, it would have been Frérin he opened his heart to; Frérin who would have mourned with him for their lost sister-sons and their deteriorating father.

When Frérin had died, it had been Dís who had sat with him and shared his grief, Dís who had become the foundation beneath his feet. But now she was cracked stone, and he was the only one left.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing.

When the count of minutes he allotted himself had passed, he pushed his pain back into its vault and turned the key. He would visit Dís and tell her about Gandalf’s visit. The wizard was off visiting with Néru and Gróin, and planned to spend the night in Erebor before leaving to Dale in the morning. The delaywould give Thorin enough time to write a letter to the hawks—a letter to birds! If Dís was herself, she would have appreciated the jest. Thorin’s diplomatic flaws were a standing joke in the family, albeit one that had long since lost its levity and become a concern. Balin would have to help him. He should probably also send word to Bofur, and let him know that he’d a chance to write his little halfling friend. Well, Nori could tell him, if Thorin could lay a hand on the slippery dwarf. With a small sigh, he pushed himself to his feet.

He was not to make it to Dís’s chambers yet.

“Thorin!” called a voice, as he stepped out of his chambers. Balin and Dwalin were coming down the hall towards him. Dwalin looked his usual dour self, but it was rare to see Balin so troubled.

He waited for them to reach him, holding his door open in case they needed to speak with him in private. It seemed that they did, for Balin nodded towards his chambers in question.

“Well?” he asked, reentering to take up his spot by the hearth once more.

“There are rumors racing through the mountain about Tharkûn’s visit,” Balin said. “They say he’s come to give some prophetic warning about the end of Durin’s line.”

“Wishful thinking somewhere,” Dwalin grunted.

Thorin rested his arm on the mantel and shook his head. “Nothing so dire. He came to pay his respects for Fíli and Kíli, and to warn us that someone has placed a bounty on the heads of Durin’s line.”

“A bounty?” Dwalin’s strong hand closed into fists. He never took kindly to threats to his kin. “Who has?”

“Count on a wizard to steal someone else’s thunder,” said a voice from behind them. They turned to find Nori ambling towards them from Thorin’s bedroom. Dwalin growled at him, and got a toothy smile back. Dwalin’s relationship with Thorin’s Hand was complicated: occasionally competitive, occasionally combative. They were utterly aligned in their loyalty though, and together with Balin made up his most trusted advisors.

The middle son of the Line of ‘Ri was blessed with all of its famous beauty, but it was a more subtle sort than his older brother Dori’s. That was all to the good, given his unofficial role as Prince’s Hand in Erebor. Though ostensibly he was under the command of Néru, the King’s Master of Spies—an ill-fitting role for the blunt old warrior,but one that Thrór and Thráin in his turn had trusted none else to do—Nori had always chosen to report directly to Thorin. Tonight Nori was wearing his hair in a vastly different style than the ostentatious peaks he adopted when he wanted to be noticeable: the new arrangement rendered him almost unrecognizable. His accent was different as well, courtly rather than the broadly common one he used in public.

Thorin was past wishing Nori would use the door and knock like normal people. But. “My bedroom?” he said, resigned. “How long have you been in there?”

“Just long enough to poke through all your things,” Nori said, unrepentant and cheerful. Dwalin’s glowers always seemed to brighten his mood. “All part of the service I provide.”

“What’s this about a bounty?” Balin asked, as ever keeping them on point. “Is the king in danger?”

“The price for his head is . . . impressive. Someone has strong feelings about you Durins, and has put his money where his mouth is.”

Thorin let Nori speak, splitting half his attention for the tale Nori spun of making a new contact in Dale who had shown him the details of the contract. The rest of his thoughts strayed back to Dís, a prisoner of her grief. What would be her reaction when learning her sons were killed for gold? Would it be any better or worse than thinking they were killed for enmity alone?

“So there’s a bounty,” Dwalin said impatiently, when Nori paused mid-tale. “How much could someone offer that would make it worth going up against the might of Erebor?”

Thorin looked up, his curiosity roused. With a gleam in his eye, Nori named a figure. Stunned silence fell.

Reflecting that Gandalf could have been more precise in his estimations of what constituted an ‘enormous’ bounty, Thorin sat down hard in one of the chairs.

“Mahal,” Balin said, reverent. “To pay that sum, one would need to be one of the richest lords in Middle-Earth.”

“That’s just for one head,” Nori said. “To pay the full bounty, one would have to have access to the mines of Khazâd-dum. Or the Ereborean treasury.”

It took only a second for Dwalin to leap to the obvious conclusion. His face darkened. “There’s a traitor in the treasury?”

“Don’t be daft,” Nori said. “Pulling out that much gold from the treasury would draw notice in a heartbeat.”

“Just the promise of that much might bring out swords and poisons—“

“The competent ones will wait to make sure it’s going to be paid out. There’s too much risk involved in targeting a Durin,” Nori said. “Those are the ones to be wary of. They’ll let the desperate ones throw themselves on our swords, see what happens when the first Durin’s dead, and _then_ make serious attempts. Which means there has to be at least one honest payout.”

“Was there one for Fíli and Kíli?” Balin asked, sharply.

Nori looked at him with eyes gone suddenly hard. “That’s the rumor,” he conceded.

“ _Mahal_ ,” Balin breathed again.

“Someone out there’s serious.”

“If it’s not a traitor—“ Dwalin began.

“Never said there wasn’t a traitor,” Nori said. “Just that it wasn’t a traitor using our treasury to set the bounty.”

After a moment while those in the room reflected on this, Balin objected, “Orcs would never set a bounty. They haven’t the wits.”

“More hands-on types, those ugly shites,” Dwalin growled.

“This one’s smart enough,” Thorin said grimly. “Tharkûn says it’s Bolg, son of Azog.”

This time the silence was tight. Fundin Farinul had died at Bolg’s hands. Balin and Dwalin had gone rigid.

“He’s dead!” Dwalin exploded at last. “Fundin ran him through at Azanulbizar!”

Thorin said, “Bolg lives. Gandalf’s halfling sent word, after.”

“That was the last message that chicken brought?” Dwalin’s face was turning red. “And you didn’t _tell_ me?”

“There was no reason to believe a halfling we neither knew, nor had reason to trust!” Thorin snapped, a little defensive.

“He ordered me to find out if it was true before he told you,” Nori said with a shrug, drawing Dwalin’s glare to himself. “I was working on it.”

“Tharkûn confirmed it today.”

“ _Wizards_ ,” Nori said with exasperation.

Dwalin and Balin looked at each other. In the normal course of things the brothers bore little resemblance to each other. At the moment, however, they looked astonishingly alike. “Ah well,” Balin said at last, ice-cold. “It was only a hope that he had died of his wounds, after all.”

“We’ll make sure of it this time by taking his head, brother,” Dwalin snarled.

“Aye, we will, brother,” Balin said.

Thorin hadn’t taken Azog’s head. His certainty of Azog’s death was certain, nonetheless: orcs were known to be brutal and inept in their leechcraft, and the wounds he and Dáin had given the orc general would have killed even an oliphant. Young though both of them had been—only a decade past his majority in Thorin’s case, while his cousin Dáin had snuck into the battle by gluing a false beard made of sheepskin on his face, only a child in his twenties—they had avenged their slaughtered kin that day.

No, Azog was dead. Thorin was certain. Surely he had no reason to doubt.

Once more he concentrated on breathing, while Balin’s and Dwalin’s voice rose with Nori’s in debate.

“—Laddie?”

The word jerked Thorin out of his distraction. Balin only ever called him that in private, when he needed Thorin to pay special attention. He looked up from the fire, rapidly replaying the last few minutes of conversation in his head:Nori, Dwalin, and Balin had been debating plans for increasing the security of the mountain and gathering intelligence. They were good plans. “Aye,” he agreed. “More than one dwarf will be tempted by that bounty. The king must be protected.”

“And the Crown Prince,” Balin said pointedly.

Thorin grimaced, but didn’t object. “Double the guard on my sister,” he said. “I must speak with her first, but she will be my heir when the year of mourning is complete. If something should happen to me, my sister will be the next in line for the throne.”

“She renounced her claim when she married Víli,” Balin objected, but there was speculation and approval in his face: Dís had always shown the makings of a great king, and Balin had commented on it more than once. A dwarrowdam as King was unusual, but there was notable precedence. It was little known to those not dwarves, but Durin V had been a ‘dam.

“She may have renounced it, but tradition allows one who has renounced a claim to be brought back into the line of succession at the will of the king. My father will support it. We've often spoken of the king she would make.”

“The Conservatives will go spare,” Nori said with satisfaction.

Dwalin grunted amusement. “It’d do them some good.”

"The Council can be made to agree. But in Dís’s current state—” Balin began.

Thorin shook his head. With more hope than certainty, he said, "Her grief will eventually lessen. And once she has recovered, she will need something to occupy her. Even so, she is the best choice. Dáin spoke to me at the funeral. He has no interest in the throne. His heart lies in the Iron Hills, and his ambition is all for their stability and strength.”

His cousin had also spoken pointedly about Thorin’s future marriage and the getting of children to cut him out of the line of succession, but Thorin didn’t mention that.

“If Dís becomes King, there are those who’ll expect her to have more children,” Balin said reluctantly.

Thorin grimaced. Dwalin instinctively growled. Only Nori didn’t react: he had no doubt already considered the airing of that possibility. “To ask that of Dís, who has already lost her One and both her children—“

“Obscene,” Dwalin said. The clench of his fists raised no doubts about how he would treat any who seriously brought up the idea.

“But if she becomes heir to the throne, there must be a line of succession beyond her,” Balin said. “If not Dáin, then who? No, it’d be best if Thorin’s heir were someone who could have heirs of the body.”

All three pairs of eyes turned to Thorin. He endured their looks with resignation.

“Laddie?” Balin asked gently.

“I still feel the pull,” he admitted. “It has grown in strength in recent days. Beyond the fact that my One lives, I know no more than that.”

Balin’s eyes sharpened. “Are you _Dreaming_?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? When it starts, you won’t necessarily remember the dreams. Not many do. Not until later, when you’ve acknowledged your One.”

“No,” Thorin said firmly. He didn’t speak aloud his certainty that no matter what they said, he would _remember_ if he had shared dreams with his One. It was a certainty as unshakeable as his own sense of self. “I have had no dreams.”

Balin sighed. “And there’s still no knowing whether it’s a ‘dam or not either, I suppose. Much less what sort of One it’ll be. Thorin, we might need to investigate enough to determine that, at least. If the Council could be told that you’d be able to beget heirs in the future—“

“And risk endangering my One if an enemy of our line learns of it? When _Bolg_ learns of it?” Thorin shook his head. “More to the point, what would you have me do if my One is male? Would you have me set aside my One to marry a ‘dam, only for the heirs the union might bring me? To reject Mahal’s gift?”

“It’s not unheard of,” Balin said without enthusiasm, choosing not to rehash the old argument about whether Thorin's One would be romantic or no. 

“Lord Vilwal of the Blackbeards has a daughter of marriageable age. So does Lord Hjafr,” Nori observed distantly.

“He’s been at Thorin’s heels for a fortnight,” Dwalin grumped.

“And that would be why. She’s accounted to be quite a beauty.”

“I’ve seen her. Face like mithril. Not bad with the axes, either.”

“She’s popular with the commoners. She’s been setting up schools in the Lead district.”

“She may be as beautiful as she chooses. I will meet her if it will still the wagging tongues. But I wed no one until after I meet my One,” Thorin said, his knuckles whitening in fists.

“Lord Garlik pulled me aside this afternoon to ask if there’s any further details about your One, and whether you’d consider a marriage for heirs instead,” Balin said, his face serious. “It is early days yet, but if you appoint Dís your heir, you should expect there to be more pressure for heirs of the body.”

“On Dís as well,” Nori said.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Dwalin said, his face darkening. “Anyone fool enough to say something to Dís can try to do it without any teeth. Or a tongue.”

“It needs to be settled on way or another, Thorin,” Balin said.

Nori nodded reluctantly in agreement. “Ambiguity on a thing like this is dangerous. Right now, Dáin’s your heir. If he really doesn’t want it—“

Dwalin grumbled, “He’ll do it anyway, if it comes to it. He has a strong sense of duty.”

“But there are plenty who want him on the throne, both here and in the Iron Hills. Once you make Dís your heir—“

Balin said, “Or if there is any rumor that you were thinking of it.”

“There could be chaos surrounding the succession,” Nori finished, the twist of his mouth sardonic. “It’d be interesting, at least.”

“Dáin has a son. He’s a good lad, last I saw.”

“Enough,” Thorin said, cutting off Dwalin when he would have offered a heated rejoinder. “This is not something that needs settling today.”

Balin looked grave. “The sooner it’s resolved, laddie, the better.”

“It will wait! My father is hale. He will live for many more years. And I will not ask this of Dís now, as she is today,” Thorin said harshly, and that silenced them. All of them had loved Fíli and Kíli; all of them loved Dís. Thorin rose to put his hand on the living stone of the wall, the weight of remembered grief and future politics bowing his back. There were times when he thought he would willingly forego finding his One, if finding them meant inflicting the burdens of Erebor on innocent shoulders.

Whoever or wherever they were, he hoped their life was happy. He sent up a fervent prayer to Mahal for it, feeling his hope join the assorted prayers of thousands of his people through the stone under his hand. “I go to my sister,” he said, letting his arm drop and turning to his advisors. He forced his face to soften, though he could add no humor to the smile that twisted his mouth. “Perhaps she will be as annoyed at Gandalf’s conversation as I was, and that will be enough to rouse her.

“Thank you, my friends. We will speak again of this at some other time. Nori, tell Bofur that the wizard will be leaving tomorrow, so if he wishes to send a letter to his halfling friend, he’d best write it tonight to give to him. You might come help me later tonight, Balin,” he added, passing them to step out into the corridor. “I have to write a letter to some birds.”

It was, he thought, as well a way to silence them as any. He took in the slight gape of Dwalin’s mouth with sour amusement, and went to visit Dís.


	16. Before Spindle Comes Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilba is in a bad mood; learning how to use a sword; irritatingly perfect Elf kings; the story of Vignis Keldasdotter; trying to spin; a strange dream; the misplaced kindness of birds; a timely miracle.

If one wanted to get away from elves, Bilba reflected bitterly, taking up residence in the Halls of the Woodland Realm was not the best way to go about it.

“Learn how to use my sword!” she echoed, staring at Legolas in some astonishment.

“You are carrying one,” Legolas pointed out, smiling. “And it is of elf make—from Gondolin in fact, made by my kin!—so what better than to learn how to use it from an elf?”

“The dwarves taught me some,” she said, dismayed. “But I had hoped not to need it in the future.”

“ _Dwarves_ ,” said Legolas, with cheerful scorn.

Quickwing made a hacking sound, as though he was wondering if hawks could spit.

“Hope is a strength against the darkness, but it will not save you from the poison of a spider,” Tauriel said, from the further end of the clearing they used to train the Woodland’s warriors. “Nor will it protect you when you go to harvest. Nienna’s Tears grow in dangerous places, on dark paths even elves are wary to tread. Better to know how to fight and not need it, than to not know how, and regret it.”

“If you will not defend yourself from danger or malice, what hope is there for your feathered friends?” asked Legolas slyly.

Perhaps an argument appealing to Bilba’s safety on her own account might not have moved her, but this one stirred her to indignation. “That’s quite sufficient, thank you very much!” she snapped, and then sighed. “And you think me very foolish, I suppose. Very well!” she said grimly. “You are set on teaching me, and I suppose I have no choice but to agree? No, I thought not.” Tauriel had raised her eyebrow. Bilba might have chosen to argue further, but did not: for while Legolas was too merry to be intimidating, she was still in awe of the beautiful captain. “I’m afraid I will be very trying to teach. The dwarves did not think much of my efforts, though they tried to be patient.”

“ _We_ are not _dwarves_ ,” declared Legolas, and that was so undeniable, Bilba found herself smiling despite herself.

Indeed, the style of elves was nothing like the style of dwarves. In a spasm of cranky poetry, Bilba reflected they were more like water and wind compared dwarven stone and fire. She struggled, for all her travels had not trained her muscles to fighting. It was tiring business. She felt quite sorry for herself. Swordplay was not, she thought, something that she would ever like: but for all her fierceness, Tauriel was a good teacher, and Legolas occasionally made Bilba smile when frustration made her want to burst into tears.

The birds swooped in and out, greatly entertained. The hawks, especially, were keenly interested. They sat on a branch and watched unblinking, occasionally murmuring to each other as the two elves drilled her mercilessly.

“Enough!” Bilba begged at last, when her face was red and bright with sweat, and her arms trembled so she could no longer lift her sword. “You may bury me here, if you please, or else roll me where you want me to go, for I can’t and shan’t stir another step!”

She plopped down where she stood, staring up at the elves with great, woeful eyes so that even Tauriel laughed.

“It is enough for now,” Tauriel said, “though we will do this again tomorrow. And every day,” she said ruthlessly, over Bilba’s despairing whimper, “until you are skilled enough with your dagger to stand on your own.”

“Learning the bow may not go amiss as well. Your first bow when you were a child should fit her, Legolas,” said a cool voice from nearby. Legolas and Tauriel turned and bowed in greetings to Thranduil, who had materialized in the shadow of one of the nearby trees.

This, Bilba thought, was absolutely the last straw. Of all the times for the confounded Elvenking to show up! He seemed to have a knack for making her feel ridiculous. Determined to show she was capable of dignity, she struggled to her feet to bow, only to fall down flat on her face.

“You’ve broken my hobbit,” the king said disapprovingly, over Legolas’s peals of laughter. Tauriel’s face was twitching, Bilba discovered with annoyance, when she was dragged up to her feet by the captain and propped up against her.

“Not at all!” Bilba said, miserably conscious of her filthy state. Her swipe at her face came away with smears of dirt. _His_ hobbit? Confound him! “I’m just a little stiff, is all. I’ll be much better after a bath and my lunch. They’ve been very kind! Mister— King. Master. Majesty.”

“You need not use so many titles to address me,” Thranduil said, approaching to tower over her.

“We haven’t kings in the Shire,” Bilba explained, scowling at Thranduil’s beautiful, _immaculate_ robes and hair. He was, as usual, utterly perfect. It made her feel quite small and grubby, unworthy of being in his presence. She had a sudden wish that one of her birds would fly over his head and deposit a dropping on his— no. No, she didn’t. Irritating elf! She disliked him enormously. “I don’t know what’s correct, I’m afraid.”

“‘My lord,’ is the easiest,” Legolas said. “Or you may use ‘Your Great Horned Highness,’ which has the benefit of being both literal and terrible.”

Tauriel smacked the back of his head. Thranduil regarded his son with benign contempt.

“My lord, then!” Bilba said, ignoring this byplay. “Legolas and Captain Tauriel have been very kind. Thank you.”

“Polite as ever, I see,” Thranduil said.

“Hobbits are always polite,” Bilba said firmly, telling herself it wasn’t _entirely_ a lie. “And I would like a way to show my gratitude somehow, if I may.”

“Would you?” Thranduil said, plainly disinterested. “It is unnecessary. Tauriel, see to it that she learns the hand signs. They will prove useful if she goes as far as to begin the spell.”

“I beg your pardon!” _As far as_ , indeed!

“The Woodland Guard has a kind of hand language for use when we need to be stealthy,” Legolas explained, while Tauriel murmured her obedience to her king. “You cannot speak during the spell casting, from what you said. How else will you speak?”

“They will not be enough for all your needs, but they will take you some ways there,” Thranduil said.

“Gandalf said that you’d seen this spell performed before,” Bilba recalled, brightening despite her exhaustion.

Thranduil tilted his head and inclined it. “Almost three thousand years ago,” he said. “Vigdis Keldasdotter wove the shroud for her husband and son, who fought the Enemy as great white bears.”

“Almost like Beorn!” Bilba said, as the other hobbits came flocking to listen to the story.

“The bear form was not uncommon for skin-changers, in those days. Many of them died in the War. We sheltered Vigdis because her father and brothers fell aiding our people. In the end, she finished the spell and returned them both to the forms of Man, though they did not thank her for it.”

“Gandalf said some of them thought it was a fate worse than death not to be able to change again,” Bilba said. “ _A_ shroud, you said. Only one, for two bears?”

“It was enough to cover both,” Thranduil said, looking at the birds clinging to her arms. “In your case, I think one will be sufficient.”

Relief straightened her spine. “Well! It’s the best news I’ve had yet. Though to be sure, so much of the _good_ news I’ve had of late has been _bad_ news in disguise, I’ve stopped being able to tell which is which. Now if only it doesn’t take me years and years to finish it!”

“It took Vignis Kelasdotter a little more than a year’s time. But she was already an adequate weaver, for one of the Secondborn.”

“Then I suppose it will take me longer for me. But a year is still less than I had thought!” Bilba said, somewhat heartened. “I may not be a weaver, but I can contrive to do almost as well, I suppose. My arms are a trifle shorter, it’s true, but hobbits are no strangers to hard work!”

Thranduil regarded her with aloof pity. “It will be difficult for you.”

“I never expected it to be easy,” she said frankly, then narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why ‘for me’ in particular?”

“You are far too merry,” murmured the Elf King. With this parting shot, he collected his chuckling son and glided away.

Bilba looked after them in bewilderment. Tauriel smothered another smile.

“Well!” Bilba huffed. “Of all the strange things to say!”

It was with wobbly legs that she went off to bathe and change, but after the substantial meal she hunted down in the kitchens, she felt a little better. A trifle concerned that Legolas might find something else dreadful for her to do—he had mentioned a number of reckless and mad schemes—she then retreated to her room and deliberately closed the door.

The chambers Thranduil’s long-suffering seneschal had assigned to her were still mostly Elf-sized, much of the furniture in it high enough to be well-nigh unusable. Over the thirteen days she had been in the Woodland Realm thus far, bits and pieces of furnishings had disappeared, to be replaced by new furnishings crafted for a hobbit. It was kind of the elves, and unexpected given Thranduil’s self-proclaimed indifference to her presence in his halls. Unfortunately, whatever moved the elves to make furnishings for her use alone, they had too much pride to make anything _cobbled together_ simply for her convenience. Thus, her rooms were a wild hodgepodge of large and small.

Bilba had learned to make do in Rivendell, and so she had early on made her own makeshift steps to reach what she needed. She hauled them now to the fire, where she had put a kettle of water to heat and keep warm.

One of the guard had brought her some vines of Nienna’s Tears on her second day here, and Bilba was in the process of experimenting with them. She started by untangling four and stripping them of seed pods and thorns, which resulted in several scratches and some choice words. With the help of a small paring knife, she peeled the thick outer hull away from a softer, fibrous core. She had several vines from previous days that she was already soaking, following the advice of the book that Faerveren had gifted her before leaving Rivendell. It had been ten days for the batch already in the kettle, though on the sixth day she had drawn them out to dry them. The odor of the water was unusual, but pleasant; she sniffed it now and found herself thinking of strawberry fields and mint.

With a long-handled fork she fished two of the vines out, and laid them out on the hearth before the fire to dry.

The vines she had pulled out yesterday were already ready, and she sat herself down beside the fire to inspect them. The first time she had taken them out to dry, she had discovered that bending the slightly-stiff vines had resulted in harder pieces crackling off and away. She had diligently removed all that she could find. This time, rubbing one of the vines between her fingers, she felt only the soft give of fibers.

Earlier in the week, she had managed to acquire a rolling pin from the kitchens and glue small stones to it. With that in hand now, she placed the vines on a piece of cloth and painstakingly rolled them out until they were a single flattened mass. That done, she scraped the bits up.

Faerveren had given her two hand carders before she’d left Rivendell, sized for her own smaller hands. They were lovely things, carved on the back with images of all her birds. Using those now, she clumsily carded the mess of vine she had left to her.

The book had informed her that the fibers would separate into long and short strands. Insofar as Bilba could see, all that she had was a fluffy mass of short and shorter strands. In that respect, this was no different than her results of the last six days. Frustrated, she pulled the mass of threads out of the carders.

Plant stalk fibers were not things that clung together naturally: and the fibers must stick together if they were to make any kind of thread long enough to weave. With the aid of the book, Bilba had spent an entire day making tiny batches of oil out of the debris dust from her carding and the seed pods she’d stripped from the vines. She dipped her fingertips in the thickest of it now, not feeling particularly hopeful, and began trying to twist the fibers together.

This was the ninth day in a row she had tried to make thread out of the vines. Eight days of failure. This day looked no more promising than the rest. Bilba found spinning a frustrating business, especially at the beginning when she hadn’t enough length to attach to a spindle. Most _especially_ when the fibers categorically refused to be spun at all. “This is as bad as waiting dough to rise when one is hungry,” she told Hamfast, who had nagged Bilba until she’d tied some twigs together to make him a broom, and was now attempting to herd chaff into a pile on the floor. “Or putting piping on a cake. Or beating cream to make it froth. Or the last week before your birthday party and oh, _bother_ it. _Blast_ it. _Spin,_ you, or I'll shove you up a goblin's nethers.”

The fibers were slipping between her fingers, tumbling to the ground to leave little oil stains on the stone. What remained between her fingers bore no resemblance whatsoever to thread.

Bilba said a word she’d learned from her mother, who’d learned it in turn from angry and creative dwarves.

Hamfast put down his broom to chirp, then determinedly picked it up again in his beak. Sweeping was slow going, but he was a hobbit, and there was nothing on Middle-Earth as stubborn as a hobbit being domestic. She looked down at the busy ball of feathers, remembering the round-cheeked, amiable lad who had brought her packages to her door only a few months ago. Not once had he shown any doubt that she would restore him to his hobbit shape. Look at him now, sweeping the floor in perfect faith that she would save him, when she hadn’t the slightest notion if she could even do it! When she had dragged him halfway across Arda, and couldn’t even spin the goat-fiddling _,_ verruca-licking, _ball-nutting thread_!

Suddenly, horribly, her eyes grew damp. She sniffled wetly. Her lower lip wobbled. Twice before this she had had small nervous collapses, after the incident with the trolls and during her first night at Beorn’s house. Perhaps it was peculiar she should have one now, when nothing in the nature of trolls or goblins had come her way.

But after all, she was only a little hobbit in a great big world when all was said and done. And she was very, very, _very_ far from home. Even the bravest of adventurers must have a last straw.

No matter how accidentally literal.

She burst into tears.

It was just as well that the elves of Rivendell had, by way of friendly jest, bestowed on her a veritable mountain of handkerchiefs. She went through many of them in the next few minutes. Hamfast, alarmed at her sobs, dropped his broom. Quickwing, Braveclaw, Drogo, and Rory, drawn by her wails, swooped in dizzying circles, before racing off in a panic. Even as birds, they were ill-equipped to handle a crying female.

Of all this, Bilba was only peripherally aware. She wrung her hands and wept wretchedly, feeling terribly foolish: but oh! It was a relief, to let her feelings out at last. Why should she not? She was far from home among strange folk, a respectable Hobbit on an utterly disreputable adventure. She ached from sword play, which was not at all something a hobbit should be learning, on the verge of dabbling in _magic_ , of all outrageous things, surrounded by wise, beautiful, and graceful elves who looked down at her for being such a drab, cowardly, silly little thing . . . .

In this, of course, she was being quite unfair, both to the elves and herself. But she was in no mood to be fair—and after all, _fairness_ was not the purpose of indulging in a good cry.

It was tiring business, wringing out one’s feelings like a wet rag. In the end, quite beyond herself, she hiccuped out the last of her misery and fell fast asleep.

 

 

  
  


 

_She was running through a vast plain, much like the long, flat fields between Beorn’s house and the borders of Mirkwood, and there were goblins staring at her from the high grass. They were out of sight, but she could feel their eyes on her like fingers, pushing at her skin just hard enough to throb._

_Her arms were full of hobbits. Squirming, flailing, whining hobbits 'tweens. And they refused to stay put._

_No matter how she scrambled to pull them into her arms again, they persisted on trying to jump out. They would be safe in the trees, she argued, but they ignored her. Primula wriggled out through the crook of her elbow, flopping down to the ground; when she scooped Prim up, Rory launched himself out of her arms to make a bid for freedom. She lunged for them, and dropped all the others: they scattered with happy squeals of triumph, running straight for the hidden goblins._

_Bilba called frantically after them. It was useless. Dread crested inside her, the desperate certainty that if she didn’t get her hobbits to the woods Right Now, they would all be gobbled up. Gobbled by goblins. Gobl’gobbled. Oh, cogswallow it! She was their only hope, and she was getting hysterical!_

_“This is an odd dream,” said a deep, beautiful voice that seemed vaguely familiar._

_Prim squeaked, picked up in strong arms. Bilba had an impression of bulk and bright eyes, before her mislaid hobbit was tucked firmly in her arms again. A few seconds later, Ham was added to her collection, while Drogo and Rory were flung willy-nilly over her companion’s shoulders._

_She tried to shuffle Prim and Ham in order to make room for the other pair, but the newcomer showed no inclination to restore them to her._

_“I can take them,” she said sharply._

_“Don’t be a fool,” he said._

_“I can!” she insisted, bristling at this rudeness. “I am quite capable, thank you very much!” She swore then, as Prim went boneless and started slipping through her arms again. Bilba clutched at her._

_“Unless you have two more arms I cannot see, you are best off leaving these to me,” said the— the Man? Hobbit? without heat. He was a fair bit larger than her, but not quite large enough to be an elf._

_“I beg your pardon!” Bilba said stiffly._

_“Apologies are not necessary,” he said and strode on ahead towards the tree-line, which was rather the opposite of what he was supposed to do. As everybody knew quite well, ‘I beg your pardon’ in that particular tone of voice meant, ‘You are being quite rude, and it would be best if you reconsidered your course of action immediately, thank you kindly!’ But it seemed this encroaching stranger knew or cared nothing of manners._

_Drogo and Rory made faces at each other from behind the stranger’s back, and began trying to paddle him on the bottom. With a small huff, the stranger shifted them so that his rear was out of reach. The two ‘tweens, undeterred, stretched harder to reach his rump._

_Despite her crossness, Bilba found her mouth twitching. She sympathized with them. If she were in their position, she would have done the selfsame thing. It was a very well-formed—_

_She broke the thought off hastily, red surging up to her cheeks. Oh, willy-gills take the creature! She hurried after him, anxiety waking up again._

_“Give me back my cousins!” she demanded._

_“I am not stealing them,” he retorted, impatient. “What do you imagine I would do with them?”_

_“How should I know? Unhand them immediately!”_

_He glanced sidelong at her. “No.”_

_It was the outside of enough. She drew herself up, preparing to give him a piece of her mind, when he suddenly thrust out his hand to her._

_He was holding a handkerchief._

_She blinked down at it, the wind taken out of her sails. It looked familiar. “Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering where she had seen it last._

_“I thought it was you,” he said with some satisfaction._

_“Do I know you?” she asked, inclined to be suspicious._

_“Not yet. But what are you doing here? It’s too soon."_

_Gibberish. He was speaking gibberish. But, “Goblins!” she exclaimed, reminded. “They’re after us!”_

_“Ah,” he said, and put Drogo and Rory down. They beamed up at him. Irrationally, Bilba had gone from wanting him to put the ‘tweens down to being indignant that he had done so before they’d reached the wood._

_“What are you doing?” she shrieked, as he drew a truly enormous sword._

_The look he gave her was grim. “Run,” he commanded. “I’ll guard your retreat.”_

_A part of Bilba was awed and touched that a complete stranger—handkerchiefs notwithstanding—should be so willing to throw himself between danger and them._

_Unfortunately, the larger part of her stomped her foot._

_“You ridiculous creature!” she snapped. “What on Arda do you think you’re about?”_

 

 

  


 

Bilba’s head popped up.

“Ridiculous!” she mumbled blearily. “Of all the—“

The thought disappeared mid-sentence, and she was left blinking sleepily at the strange assortment of things lined up before her nose. She focused with difficulty. She had fallen asleep on the floor, apparently: her cheek was numb from where it had been pressing against her stone, her arms stiff from the earlier exercise.

With difficulty, she sat up. It was easier to see then the strange collection before her. A red flower from the garden. A small pile of damp seeds. A squashed bug. Two mice and a squirrel.

She shuddered. The mice and squirrel were emphatically dead. Gorily, bloodily, _enthusiastically_ dead. Aware of eyes on her, she looked up to find her birds perched around the room, staring hopefully down at her.

The hobbits twittered. One of the hawks crooned, plainly pleased with itself.

It was a hobbit custom, to bring food to neighbors and friends when anything noteworthy happened in their lives. When Drogo had come to live with Belladonna and Bilba, it had been almost two months before anyone in the smial had needed to cook at all. The bringing of food was a kindness, as well as an excuse to get the latest in gossip; a pragmatic approach for hobbits, who thus handily combined charity and curiosity in the making of a simple casserole. Well! Of gossip there was surely none to share—her cheeks burned at the memory of her undignified collapse: she was conscious of a headache and the heavy feeling that came from such indulgence—but the demonstration of kindness could never be taken for granted, no matter how distressingly bloody. She was touched by this demonstration of caring.

“Thank you!” she managed after a moment, tearing her gaze away from the squirrel’s accusing stare. “It is very kind of you, I’m sure! I don’t know what I was about, to turn into such a watering pot. I suppose it was all too much for me, quite suddenly.”

Ham, who had joined his fellow hobbits, made a mournful sound.

“But that was then, and this is now,” Bilba told them, forcing herself to smile. “I’m feeling much better now. And it’s only a matter of time before I find the knack for making thread. I’m on the verge of it right now, in fact. I’m nearly certain that it’s only a matter of—“

She stopped, then, and gaped. Her fingers were curled around a thin thread, dull brown and lumpy, but thread nonetheless. She had spun the vine’s fibers. How? She bent it suspiciously, looped it around her finger, found the end of it and blinked. With the air of one willing to suspend disbelief, she added a few more of the carded fibers to the end and tried to spin it together, with no success.

Wings fluttered. The birds landed on and around her, intent on her work. _Why_ didn’t it work? How had she done it the first time? She waded through muzzy memory to the beginnings of her crying fit. She had wrung her hands, like so— and wrenched them apart, like _so_ —

One of the fibers, sharper than the rest, pricked her finger. With an impatient click of the tongue, she popped it in her mouth.

She tasted salt. Salt? Why, salt? She stopped, bewildered, staring at her finger. Then she looked at the short, gleaming thread. After a moment's thought, she licked it. Drogo chirped in confusion. 

“It  _is_ salt!” she said, astonished. A stray thought twitched. What was it Thranduil had said? _You are far too merry_. “It can’t be!”

Rory piped a question. Bilba, however, was already scrambling to her feet. Heedless of her passengers, she bolted to the washroom to fill her basin, and carried it clumsily back to her workspace. Her traveling supplies, long since distributed to the various drawers and shelves of the room, provided a small pouch of salt—an expensive luxury in Rhovanion, so far from the sea. She dropped a pinch into the water, and splashed it about vigorously until all the thick granules disappeared.

With the birds providing urgent commentary, she sat down and tried again. Fibers. A dip of oil. A touch of salt water. A twist of fingers.

She stared. A few seconds later, she realized she was holding her breath. She released it in a great puff. But the miracle in her hands did not change.

“It worked,” she said, wondering.

The birds cheered.

“It worked!” she repeated, hastily repeating the process to extend the thread. The result was lumpy, but undeniably _thread_ , and fairly strong thread at that. “Tears! Nienna’s _Tears_! Why, in the name of _sense_ , couldn’t he have simply _said—_ “

But she hadn’t asked him, had she? And how was he to know that she had been struggling with this very problem? Shrewd and perspicacious the Elvenking might be, but even he couldn’t see behind closed doors and thick skulls. Why hadn’t she asked him? What a fool she was!

She found herself laughing. The birds were caroling with joy as well, flitting in dizzying circles through the room.

“Thranduil! Of all the—the infuriating creatures! I take back all I’ve thought about him. Elves are the most wonderful creatures to walk Middle-Earth. And out of them all, King Thranduil is undoubtedly the very best. May his hair ever grow longer!”


	17. A Matter of Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilba is rudely wakened; King Thranduil writes a letter to hobbits; the ridiculousness of Legolas; a matter of Elvish healing; Gandalf returns; a personal and poorly-phrased invitation from Thorin, son of Thrain; good news from Bofur saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to post on Monday as usual, due to possible lack of Internet access and general travel-related shenanigans. As a result, I'm posting today. Two more chapters and then we'll be on Part II!

 

Elves, Bilba decided a fortnight later, were the silliest creatures to walk Middle-Earth. And the silliest of those silly creatures were Legolas Thranduilion and his father, the squirrel-witted King of the Woodland Realm.

“You can’t simply wake me up in the middle of the night to ask me these kinds of questions!” she exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips to glare at the ridiculous pair of them. “Why, in the name of all that’s sensible, couldn’t it have waited until morning?”

Legolas was perched as usual on the sill of a window, fletching arrows and making a mess of the king’s private chambers. Thranduil was lounged in a chair, not a hair out of place. Apparently, the long robe he was wearing was what he wore for sleep, although to Bilba’s eyes it looked a great deal like what he wore during the day as well. The only thing he was missing was his crown.

At least their modesty was preserved: they looked annoyingly perfect, as elves tended to. She herself, plucked up by an insistent Legolas out of her bed, was a rumpled mess in the ludicrously long nightgown He had seen fit to switch for hers. She had been forced in the end to tie it shut in a big bunch at her throat, else she would have fallen completely through the neck hole. Even worse was the ridiculous robe that Thranduil had wrapped around her the minute he got a glimpse of her. It trailed several feet behind her.

“You were thinking of starting the spell in the morning,” Thranduil reminded, adding a few more words at the bottom of the letter he was writing. “It seemed a better idea to ask you while you could still answer.”

“But in the middle of the night. And I was having such a lovely dream about something I can’t recall now,” Bilba mourned, shuffling to a chair to try to climb into it. Legolas moved as though to help boost her up. She glared at him. He subsided, his eyes laughing. “You couldn’t tell me during dinner that you were going to be writing a letter to the Shire?”

“I was not intending to write a letter to the Shire during dinner,” Thranduil said tranquilly. “It was my son’s notion, and he did not think of it until a few minutes ago. I have never written a letter to hobbits before. Should I describe my pantries and trace my family tree for them, do you think? If you are any example, it seems like the kind of inanity they would enjoy.”

Bilba peered at him warily. Tongue in cheek, she suggested, “The weather and the state of one’s gardens are also important topics of discussion in the Shire.”

“Of course,” Thranduil murmured. “I should have thought of it. ‘ _The weather is clement, except when it is not. The trees, being trees, are green, though the insects are troublesome._ ’ What a pleasant change from sending missives about orc movements and fell magics. I feel almost refreshed. Should I send along a soil sample, do you think? Or perhaps a spider leg. Yes, a spider leg would be better. Be sure to bring back a set of spider legs the next time you go scouting, Legolas. If my messenger passes through Imladris and accidentally leaves one or, I hesitate to suggest, all eight behind on his way to the Shire, I foresee a delightful exchange of letters with Elrond.”

Legolas was pealing with laughter. It was the final death knell in the awe that Bilba had felt towards the elves of the Mirkwood. Who could possibly take them seriously like this? Proud he may be, but she had Thranduil’s measure now. Though he might be more intimidating than Elrond, his occasionally acid wit reminded Bilba of her favorite aunt Mirabella’s: mischief and kindness hidden by droll commentary and a pretense of indifference. How could she fear something so familiar?

"What shall I tell your kin about your progress with the spell?” Thranduil asked politely.

Bilba brightened. “I think I’ve settled on the best way to make the thread out of the plants. It’s strong enough, but it’s a time-consuming process, I’m afraid. Fortunately, I can make quite a deal of thread out of each stem, so I won’t have to harvest as much or as often as I was afraid I would. And I’ve finished a sample swatch on one of your Big Folk looms, though it took a good deal of trotting back and forth to use it. What unnecessarily long arms you elves have! I can't think how they don't drag on the floor when you walk.”

Thranduil looked down at his own arms as though wondering the same thing, while Legolas stretched out his admirably long legs and grinned at his father. "Did the weaving go well?"

One of the Woodland Realm’s master weavers, Malfindon, had been reluctantly helpful once Legolas and the birds had helped Bilba hunt him down. Puffing up proudly, she informed, “Malfindon was rather impressed with my swatch, I should say. He said he’d never seen anything quite like it before.” 

Legolas bit the inside of his cheek before catching the private gleam of amusement in Bilba’s eye. He chuckled.

“Gandalf is back in the borders of the wood,” Thranduil said regretfully, while Bilba hid her smile and struggled to find her hands in the overwhelming sleeves that draped them. “Tauriel is escorting him. He will be back by tomorrow afternoon. I suppose he will be bringing your loom."

"That's a mercy," Bilba commented. "In between the running back and forth, and the difficulties with spinning, I'm quite knackered, I must say. It will be a relief to work on a sensibly sized loom, at least!"

Thranduil turned in his seat to regard her, then rose to crouch beside her seat. He rolled back the right sleeve until he found her hand, and then turned it in his long, elegant fingers to study the skin.

“These are new,” he observed coolly, of the fresh cuts that criss-crossed her fingers.

“Well, there are thorns, you know,” she said with discomfort, flapping at him with the other sleeve-drowned hand. “But it’s nothing to be concerned about. Why, I get worse every time I tend the roses in my garden, or pick blackberries for making preserves!”

“You had gauntlets, I recall.”

“Yes, and very helpful they will be for harvesting. But peeling the skins off and stripping the pith is more delicate work than grabbing and chopping. The gauntlets are no help there. No, bare hands must do it, or else it can’t be done.”

“The weavers must supply you with some sort of tool,” Thranduil decided.

“Perhaps I could use a paring knife."

“Not _too_ sharp.”

Bilba stared. “Bless me, but what do you imagine I’ll do with a dull one? I’m quite capable of using a knife without cutting myself, thank you kindly! And I can’t see how you should be expecting me to learn how to fight spiders on the one hand, and then doubt my ability to use a paring knife on the other!”

There was a skeptical crease between Thranduil’s brows. Bilba looked over at Legolas, who was watching his father _fuss_ —because it could be called nothing else—with frank enjoyment. She was aware that compared to their great ages she was practically a babe, but she was, as she often reminded them, a hobbit full grown. Not that they seemed to be able to remember that from one moment to the next. Legolas constantly twitched with wanting to help her with things she could do perfectly well herself—and Thranduil! More than once he had come out of nowhere to watch her with aloof concern, before smothering her with the very robe off his back when he decided she must be cold, and then swanning away before she could excavate herself.

If it wasn’t so ridiculous, it would be quite sweet.

“Bebother you two,” she sighed. “If my little scratches bother you so, I can’t imagine how anxious Legolas made you when he was running about as a tiny elfling.”

Legolas smiled brightly at her. “We elves take few hurts, even as children. Our skins are stronger. Brambles would not have cut me: and elf children are wiser than the children of other races.”

“And yet I recall a young elf who became convinced he could learn how to fly if he fell for long enough,” Thranduil said without so much as a change of expression as he rolled back her other sleeve to inspect that hand as well. His hands were warm and oddly comforting against hers. “So in his great wisdom he climbed almost the top of one of mallorns of Calas Galadon, tied a rope around his waist—“

“But you are tired, Bilba!” Legolas exclaimed, hastily cutting off his father. “You must to bed again!”

Bilba chuckled. “Oh, no! It is far too late to be solicitous of my sleep. How does this story end? I shan’t get a wink of sleep now unless I know.”

Unheeding of Legolas’s protests, Thranduil continued in his deceptively dispassionate way, “He did not learn how to fly, precisely, but he learned how to dangle from a tree with great skill. We found him tangled in his rope from the branches of a neighboring tree, upside-down, naked, and covered in leaves like a half-plucked partridge. He was known as _Legoval_ among the Galadhrim, for near two centuries.”

From Greenleaf to Greenwing. Even childish nicknames sounded more graceful in Sindarin. But, “Naked!” Bilba managed, through sobs of laughter.

Thranduil raised a quizzical eyebrow, while Legolas buried his face in his hands. “No bird wears clothing. What wise elfling learning to fly would weigh himself down with more than birds do?”

“ _Wise_ elfling!” Bilba gasped.

“Yet I still hold I would have learned to fly, if the mallorn were not so jealous!” Legolas said, emerging from his hands, eyes alight. “The eagles of Manwe have once or twice borne me on their backs, and I am certain they agree with me.”

“Suggesting they drop you mid-flight was not a matter of agreement, but of self-defense,” Thranduil said, looking bored. But through her tears of hilarity, Bilba saw the love with which he looked on his son, and her heart warmed even more.

“I _am_ grateful you have taken me under your . . . your wings,” she said, wiping away her tears on her sleeve. The weight of worry on her had lifted enormously. She felt more refreshed from that one laugh than all the restless sleep she’d had since she’d left Beorn’s house, combined. “I haven’t laughed this hard in longer than I can remember! Oh dear! It feels like I’ve done nothing but fret since I left the Shire.”

Thranduil released her hands and rose to return to his letter writing. “Gratitude is unnecessary. It was Mithrandir’s doing. What Mithrandir wants, Mithrandir usually gets, or else he grows quite tiresome in his complaining about it.”

It was a dampening thought at first, to think the elves saw her as a burden; but Bilba saw that Legolas looked amused, and was reassured. “You are a complete fraud, King Thranduil!” she declared boldly. “Gandalf may have asked for your hospitality for me, but he certainly didn’t ask you to be so kind, or to have the cooks make me Shire food, or to order slippers made for me because you think the floors are cold, or to write letters reassuring my kin, or—“

“I am not doing anything of the sort,” Thranduil said with severity. He frowned at her beneath his lowered brows. “I will write to inform your kin that you will not be returning home, as you were eaten by spiders while picking flowers. And that I will be dining on your pestilential birds for supper tonight.”

Bilba scoffed. Legolas laughed. “You are found out, _Adar_! In truth, Bilba, we are happy that you are here. You bring new life to us. Never fear! Even if Mithrandir had not asked, we would have kept you safe from the greed of Men and Dwarves. Your folk are dear to us of old.”

“Now, however can you mean that?” Bilba asked, curious. “ _The greed of Men and Dwarves_! What an odd thing to say. Are Men and Dwarves so different in the East? Do they eat hobbits?”

Legolas regarded Bilba with amusement. “Do hobbits know no other kind of greed save that of the stomach?”

“I daresay some of us do, if you mean the type of greed that’s about sneaking off with my silver spoons—but that’s not a common thing outside of Sackville-Bagginses, thank goodness.”

The Elf-prince nodded gravely as though he knew all about Sackville-Bagginses, which showed he was capable of good manners anyway, even if he didn’t always choose to exercise them. “Perhaps it is the same kind, then. Certainly you would be a novelty to them, and where they find something marvelous and rare, the worst of Men and Dwarves will desire to own it, no matter their right.”

“I suppose that ‘marvelous and rare’ is meant to be to my benefit,” Bilba said suspiciously. “Well, you would know best what the folk hereabouts would think, but I’ll have you know I’m neither one nor the other. The Men of the West would find me dull enough, I promise you.”

“Now that, I refuse to believe,” Legolas declared.

“Elrond insists the Men of the West are uncommonly wise. For Men,” Thranduil said. He looked pensive. “Perhaps he simply meant that it is an achievement to be less foolish than utter fools?”

Bilba was a little confused as to whether she was being complimented or insulted. It was always difficult to tell, with Thranduil. Eyeing him mistrustfully, she plowed on. “As for dwarves, I don’t know many, saving that Quickwing and Braveclaw have been good and brave companions. Those I met in the caravan were polite enough. I consider several of them friends! I was hoping to visit them in Erebor, before I returned home.”

It seemed to Bilba that Legolas and Thranduil spoke to each other silently, without ever so much as looking at each other. There was a chill to Thranduil that she hadn’t seen before. “If you should wish to visit Erebor, Legolas will be pleased to accompany you,” Thranduil said distantly. “They know him there, and he can see that you come out again, if it comes to it.”

Legolas, Bilba saw, was looking worried. “There’s some mystery here,” she decided, and then lost the rest of the thought around an enormous yawn. She smothered it hastily with her hands, mortified, and blinked wide to see the elves regarding her with interest. “I _beg_ your pardon!” she said, mortified. “I can’t think what came over me.”

Thranduil said with lofty disapproval, “You should not stay up so late, if you are intent on beginning your spell tomorrow. You will need to rise early if you are to eat before joining the guard to collect your plants.”

“Of all the—!” Bilba sputtered, embarrassment quite forgotten. She struggled down from the chair, landing in a great balloon of robe, and gathered up an armful of the train to march with dignity to the door. “I’ll have you know that I was perfectly comfortable in my bed already until your confusticated son woke me, thank you very much. If you have no further need of me,” she said, ignoring Legolas’s fresh burst of laughter behind her, “I will wish you good night. Again!”

She lifted her hand in farewell, only to discover to her amazement that the cuts on it had disappeared. She stopped dead. “Now, how did that happen?” she exclaimed, turning it over to marvel at it. “I would swear there were scratches not a moment ago!”

“Elf healing,” said Legolas with a smile.

Bilba brightened, curiosity roused despite her exhaustion. “Now _that_ is something I have heard stories of, and seen a little in Rivendell—but it was all herbs, draughts, and lotions there, and I’ve had none of those here. Is it magic?”

“Were you not going to bed?”

“Yes, but I shall sleep better without a mystery to worry me.”

“We cannot have you tossing and turning over so small a thing! It is not magic to us, though other races may call it so. What is magic but something one person can do that another does not understand? The healing that elves are famous for lies in strengthening the body’s gifts, whether it be bringing it back from the edge of shadow, or hastening the healing of small cuts. Through herbs, yes, but also through the sharing of our being. Great things it can do, but it is limited, too: and the greater the task, the more it steals from the _fëa_ of the one who wields it.”

“They barely did this at all in Rivendell,” she said, inspecting her hands.

“Ah, but the Elves in Imladris are frugal, and claim to save it for great need. We are wiser, and know that a talent is meaningless if not used.”

“Then is this your doing?”

“I? No! Some small things I can do, but not easily. To close such things so swiftly comes from those with greater gifts than mine.”

Bilba turned her bright eyes to Thranduil, whose pen moved with unruffled calm across parchment. “Did _you_ —“ she began.

“Good night,” said Thranduil, to all appearances engrossed in his work. “Sleep well, Mistress Baggins.”

“You ridiculous elf!” she said fondly.

 

 

 

 

Gandalf returned as predicted, bearing their packs on the back of his borrowed horse. A little over a month had passed since he’d left the Elvenking’s Halls. Bilba, who on second thought had decided to postpone starting the shroud until after she had her loom back and had a few words with the wizard, greeted him at the great stone doors.

“At last!” she said. “I’ve figured out how to make the thread, you’ll be pleased to know! Although it’s a messy business. And I've practiced weaving, so I think I'm quite set now. King Thranduil has kindly given me a workroom and forbidden anyone else from entering it, which of course means that Legolas is constantly in there, asking questions and getting underfoot. Welcome back!”

Gandalf chuckled. Hearing his voice, the other hobbits came swooping out of the high eaves of the hall to spin mad circles around him. He greeted them, affection warm in his face. Neither dwarf was in evidence at the moment. Their stay in the Elvenking’s Halls had been hard for them. There were too many places they were not allowed to go, and they were inclined to sulk about the restrictions.

“I trust you’ve been treated well?” Gandalf asked.

“Splendidly!” Bilba said, taking up her loom and leading the way to her workroom. “Although I could do without summonses in the middle of the night. Do elves never sleep? They’re endlessly curious about hobbits. Barring their unease about Quickwing and Braveclaw, they’ve been excellent hosts. You shall see tonight! I was at a loss how to show my gratitude, but King Thranduil let me borrow his kitchens, so in between spinning, I’ve been baking. I made pies for tonight. You wouldn’t think it, but he’s hopelessly greedy for Shire baking and will barely let anyone else have even a piece.”

Interest raised Gandalf’s eyebrows. “Are these your father’s excellent fruit pies? Or perhaps the secret Took ones?”

“I did father’s apple tartlets the other day. Today’s for game and potatoes.” Bilba cast a guiltily laughing glance up at Gandalf. “I thought perhaps my mother wouldn’t mind me using the Took recipes, since it isn’t likely Thranduil’s people would share them west of the Misty Mountains. And perhaps they’ll take them as far as the Undying Lands someday. I rather like the idea of them eating our venison and mushroom pies in the Undying Lands.”

Gandalf laughed. “I do as well. I will look forward to dinner, then. I remember those pies fondly. But I have letters for you, you will be happy to know. Four of them! I’ll be interested to see what you make of them.”

He waited until she had put down the loom and handed her four letters, of very different quality. The hobbits came to settle on her shoulders in curiosity. The hawks, who had been given a perch in the workroom, opened their black eyes to greet Gandalf with dignity.

“Bofur!” Bilba cried, reading the name on two. The hawks lifted their heads with interest, and flew to sit closer to her and listen. “Two letters, already? He must miss us a good deal. And this dwarf I remember, though we barely spoke during our travels. This last one though, looks to be a very official sort of document.”

“The wax seal and the ribbon are to convey the importance of the writer,” Gandalf said, watching Bilba inspect the last letter before cracking it open. “You are greatly honored, my dear. Or perhaps I should say Masters Quickwing and Braveclaw are honored! The letter is addressed to all three of you.”

“From Master Oakenshield, I see,” Bilba said doubtfully. The two hawks squawked with excitement, bouncing on their perch. “He was rather rude, as I recall.”

“You must understand that when it comes to royalty, they are never rude, only _refreshingly direct_. _”_

“Is he royalty?" Bilba asked with the air of one who had seen her low opinions satisfyingly verified. Gandalf smothered his smile while she scanned quickly over the letter. "He’s a bit more polite in this though, although he calls me a ‘halfling.’ Perhaps someone wrote it for him! Listen:

_“To the halfling, Master Baggins._

_“Greetings._

_“Weeks past your friends Braveclaw and Quickwing aided the caravan led by Alkar, son of Bakkar, by bringing word to myself and my company of attacking orcs. You will be pleased to know that the orcs were repelled. Your hawks fought bravely in that battle, battling against the enemy to great effect. I offer them and you my thanks._

_“I write now on behalf of my sister, the Lady Dís, daughter of Thráin. In recent days she has learned of the death of her sons, Prince Fíli and Prince Kíli, and now grieves as a mother who is mother no more. Remembering that she took much comfort in Braveclaw and Quickwing during our journey, I ask that they come to the kingdom of Erebor, that she may take joy again in their companionship. There they will be treated as guests of Durin’s line, the royal house of Erebor._

“And in a completely different hand at the bottom, he writes, _You may also come._ _Signed Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin,_ etcetera, etcetera. ‘I may also come?’ What a warm-hearted invitation, to be sure.”

“Hm,” said Gandalf, as the hawks huddled together and made sounds of distress at Bilba’s obvious annoyance. “I detect Balin’s hand in the body of the letter. He's the diplomat in the family. It’s just as well. I told Thorin to address Master Braveclaw and Master Quickwing, but the Line of Durin were never ones to listen to direction.”

The hawks mantled indignantly. “I suppose I should be shocked by that,” Bilba said, sounding anything but. “Still, poor Lady Dís! I wish we could help. Would you be willing?” she asked the hawks, her quick sympathies caught by the bereaved mother.

At her question, Braveclaw fluttered up to her armored shoulder, cocking his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t come—there’s too much to do here! But I don’t mind if you go,” she said warmly. Gandalf noticed with interest that a comfortable understanding between hobbit and bird seemed to have developed in his absence, lack of common language notwithstanding. “There’s really no _need_ for you to stay nearby, if you’d rather be in the mountain. I imagine you would at that, since you’re dwarves, really. Not to say you aren’t helpful here: the others do better when you’re about to keep them safe, for instance, and they listen to you far more than they listen to me! Although even that isn’t all that much, really.

“It will be months, probably, or even years, before the shroud is done. As long as you’re back for that, that’s the critical point, I think. But how will you know where to go? For that matter, how will they know how to . . . to care for you? Imagine if they caged you!”

Braveclaw made conversational noises at her, while Quickwing launched himself up to confer with the other birds.

“As to that, if you wrote a letter of instructions to Thorin, I think he could manage well enough,” Gandalf said, amused. “You could make it clear that they are to be left free to come and go as they please.”

“Should I tell him that they’re dwarves?”

Gandalf considered. “I think it would be wisest not,” he said after some deliberation. “For the same reasons we didn’t tell the caravan. Magic outside of their own is viewed with suspicion by the dwarves, as it’s considered _elvish_. And there are other concerns, too— well. We can come up with a tale that will satisfy them about their intelligence, while keeping them safe from the malicious.”

“Will they be in danger?” she asked, alarmed.

“They might, at that. There’s a bounty on the line of Durin, Lady Dís and Prince Thorin not excepted. To get to them,” he said, forced to raise his voice over the alarmed squawks of the hawks, “a hunter might try to get to Quickwing and Braveclaw instead, especially if it is seen that Lady Dís values them.”

She gnawed her lip, and looked up at Braveclaw, torn. The hawk scoffed, so that she was forced to bite back a grin. “Yes, of course. You laugh in the face of danger, as any proper dwarf would. I’ll write a letter, if you’re determined, and you can take it with you! Only—“ she faltered. “Come back to visit me, from time to time? I would like to know you’re safe, and you can see the progress I’m making with the shroud that way.”

“And your hobbit friends will miss you, I have no doubt,” Gandalf said, smiling kindly on the excited hawks. The other hobbits cheered in prompt agreement, swarming the dwarves so that Quickwing toppled over and Braveclaw was forced to dive around the room, leading them in a wild game of chase.

“I’ll write a letter, then,” Bilba decided. Her eyes lit up. “I have a thing or two to say to that dwarf about his manners. ‘Refreshingly direct,’ indeed!”

“But what about Bofur’s letters?” Gandalf asked, when Bilba looked ready to do that immediately.

Reminded, she opened up those letters in turn, reading quickly aloud for the benefit of the birds. The first letter was a simple note thanking her and the birds for the help, a hope that she was safe and well, and a request that she write him so that his poor old heart would no longer need to worry about her.

The second, much longer, was a cheerful missive detailing his homecoming, the rapturous welcome given Bifur and himself by Bofur’s brother Bombur, the increasing size of which would soon make it necessary to widen all the house doors.

“ _My brother-sons and brother-daughters constantly demand tales about halflings, and run off to share my tales with their friends. By the time you come to visit, you’ll be more famous than the royal family! That song of Tom Bombadil’s is being sung already by every dwarfling on the street. I even heard it sung in the market yesterday. Where, I’m happy to tell you, I’ll be—_

“Oh, he’s getting his toy shop!” she broke off to exclaim. “And he’s given his address, so that we know where to go when we visit. I must write a letter to him as well. To think grandfather’s story is being told in the markets of Erebor! Well! Pleased as punch he’d have been, if he’d known.”

“Quickwing and Braveclaw might take it to him, on their way to the palace,” Gandalf suggested, eyeing the hawks.

“I’ll write down another story for him in my letter,” she decided, as the hawks squawked agreeably from their perches. “Maybe the one about mother and the Eagle who plucked you out of the den of goblins? That one doesn’t have a song to it, but the end of it is very funny.”

Gandalf sighed as one much put upon, though his eyes gleamed with amusement and satisfaction at her softened mood. “I do not recall being vomited on by an Eaglet all that amusing.”

“No, well, you wouldn’t, all things considered,” Bilba said with a grin at her wizard friend. “How wise of you to be Gandalf the Grey! If you were Gandalf the White, I think you’d spend all your time doing laundry.”


	18. Wizard Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gandalf gives Thranduil bad news; the Elvenking is annoyed; everybody goes off on their own business.

It was evening by the time Gandalf ran Thranduil down. He found the elf-king in his royal chambers, lounging in the windowsill with a book while Legolas and Tauriel played chess in a corner. It was the younger pair who greeted him, Tauriel with more restraint than the ever-cheerful Woodland prince.

“We had been waiting, but you have been slow, Mithrandir!” Legolas said, as he rose to pour wine. He refilled his father’s glass in passing before handing Gandalf one of his own. “My father says you have been visiting Dale and Erebor. How did you find the _naugrim_?”

“Less troubling than I feared, but less comforting than I’d hoped,” Gandalf answered, accepting his glass with thanks. “But you were there only a fortnight ago, Legolas.”

“I was there, and then left as soon as courtesy allowed. Erebor is a dark place, and too dwarvish for me,” Legolas said, shuddering. “I was eager to leave. There is much in the world I yearn to see, but the kingdoms of dwarves do not number among them.”

“And you are better entertained here of late than you have been,” Tauriel said wryly. She lifted a brow at Gandalf, humor glinting in her bright eyes. “He is enchanted by your _perian_ , Mithrandir.”

Gandalf chuckled, settling into one of the open chairs. “Bilba is as charming as her mother ever was, and perhaps even more remarkable. It’s a rare hobbit who chooses to leave the borders of the Shire. But Bilba is as much Baggins as she is Took, and the combination appears to have made something extraordinary.”

“She told us about those family lines. ‘Baggins for responsibility, and Tooks for adventure,’ she said. She claimed neither side had overmuch time to spare for princes or kings,” Legolas said, with more satisfaction than regret.

“Especially when they are ‘silly clunks,’ she says. She scolds my king both for putting his feet on the furniture, and chases Legolas out of the kitchen when she bakes,” Tauriel shared.

“But she makes pies for my father and he won’t share! What else am I to do but steal them as they come out of the oven?”

“I am the king,” Thranduil said tranquilly, turning the page of his book. “Sharing is for lesser beings.”

“You see!” Legolas said, sprawling into his own seat and grinning at Gandalf. “You must bring us an army of _periannath_ , armed with many recipes. Or else the rest of the Woodland Realm will grow envious and sullen.”

“She fares well here, then?” Gandalf asked, some slight worry in him easing.

“Give us leave, and we will keep her and her feathered kin forever,” Legolas declared. “Even her dwarves are not so bad. Perhaps it is because they cannot talk.”

“Legolas,” Tauriel reproached.

“Tauriel likes Quickwing because he shows a passion for archery,” Legolas explained. “They have already fought spiders together once. He claws at their eyes and blinds them, and retrieves her arrows to refill her quiver.”

“You point fingers when Braveclaw distracted a spider who was close to making you a snack, Legolas.”

“They are not _entirely_ worthless,” Thranduil conceded, which from him was high accolade.

Tauriel’s smile dawned in her eyes again, though her face remained appropriately grave. Legolas had no such compunctions. He laughed.

Gandalf found himself smiling at the prince’s happiness, the troubles of his spirit briefly soothed by such clear joy. It was the elf prince’s gift, to be merry even in the face of adversity. Men and Dwarves thought it was a marvel, that the prince should be so different from his father, who rarely smiled and had never laughed once in Gandalf’s thousand-year acquaintance with him. Galadriel had once told Gandalf that Thranduil had been as bright a spirit before the War of the Last Alliance, when Oropher and Gil-galad had been brought low by Sauron, and two-thirds of Oropher’s people had been slain.

He clung to that memory when Thranduil was being particularly irritating.

Thinking of that now, and the blight that darkened the farther reaches of Mirkwood, he drew out the wrapped blade that Radagast had entrusted to his care in Rivendell.

Thranduil looked up from his book for the first time, sensing it. Legolas and Tauriel, less familiar with the workings of Mordor, cast puzzled glances around them before following the sense of evil to its source. In silence, Gandalf placed the wrapped blade on the empty table near him and unwrapped the bindings that kept it safe. The chill of doom that spilled from it when the cloth fell away drew a gasp from Tauriel.

The face of Legolas was shocked and stern, but Thranduil, rising, was cold rage itself. This was the elf that fought at Oropher’s side at Barad-dûr, who led his devastated people back to the peace of the Greenwood and rebuilt their kingdom.

“What evil have you brought to our halls, Mithrandir?” Legolas asked, regarding the dagger in horror.

“A Morgul blade,” Thranduil said, and his voice bit like shattered ice. “Almost three thousand years have passed since last I beheld that vileness. What graves have you opened to find this evil, wizard?”

“None,” Gandalf said sharply. “This blade came from Dol Guldur, brought by Radagast to the White Council at Rivendell. Lady Galadriel named it—a blade of the Witch-King of Angmar, she said, buried with him in the High Fells of Rhudaur under such spells as would allow none to find him.”

“And yet here it is,” Thranduil said thinly, drawing his robes close around him.

“It was no mortal man who drew this on Radagast, but a servant of the Necromancer who dwells there.”

“I have never fought a wraith,” Legolas mused, and his father gave Gandalf a nigh crippling look of angry reproach.

“Few still walk Middle-Earth who have. I would not be so hasty, Prince Legolas,” Gandalf said, returning Thranduil’s look with a stern one of his own. “This Necromancer is no mortal Man, and his servants are no normal wraiths. Your father knows of what I speak.”

The two younger elves looked at Thranduil, who did not deign to acknowledge them.

“A thousand years this Necromancer has dwelt in Dol Guldur,” Tauriel said slowly. She had risen, like Legolas, to regard the blade with fascinated revulsion. “Evil gathers in that fortress, and spews forth its darkness into our forest. It is from Dol Guldur that the spiders come. My lord, if we could slay them at the source—“

Thranduil turned away to his wine again, tall and set with offense: but he did not turn his back on the blade. “Dol Guldur lies beyond our borders,” he said. “It is no concern of ours.”

Gandalf raised his eyebrow. “Is it not?”

Thranduil’s mouth thinned.

“What does Mithrandir mean, father?” Legolas asked, turning his gaze from wizard to king with keen attention. His merriment had died for the moment, banked behind the fierceness of a warrior and blooded prince. “Who is this Necromancer, and what are his servants?”

Gandalf raised his other eyebrow, inviting the king to speak. After a moment, Thranduil said, “I believe it to be one of the Nazgûl.”

The exclamations that arose from both Legolas and Tauriel overpowered each other, shock overlain with anger. Thranduil made no effort to quell their outburst, choosing rather to twitch the cloth back over the dull malevolence of the blade. With it hidden, the chill in the room eased somewhat.

“Always you bring trouble on your heels,” he said bitterly to Gandalf. “Is this your plan, Mithrandir? To inflame my son so that I have no choice but to send my people into danger to protect him?”

“That is no plan of mine,” Gandalf said, “but keeping him here will not protect him, nor will staying in your borders save your people. You are too close. Evil lies on your borders. You are the body between it and Erebor, lynchpin of the North. The Enemy’s blade will strike through you, and care little that you wish for peace.”

“Dire warnings,” sneered Thranduil.

“But nothing you do not already know.”

“Will you do nothing, father?” Legolas demanded. “That a Nazgûl claims lands just outside our borders—“

“What I _think_ is not the same as what I _know_ ,” Thranduil said, cutting his son off with a sharp look at Gandalf. “Unless there is more to this tale than Gandalf has told.”

Gandalf held Thranduil’s gaze for a moment, then softened into tired acknowledgment. “That is true enough,” he told Legolas. “The White Council is undecided. Many believe your father is correct, but the leader of us disagrees. There is no proof. None of us have seen with any certainty. That a wraith might have a Morgul blade is ominous, but it means nothing but that spells have been broken, and that the dead can pass through places the living cannot. It is my task now to investigate Dol Guldur, as I told you when we first met, Legolas. Perhaps then _thinking_ will become _knowing._ ”

“A perilous learning,” Tauriel said in her quiet voice.

“Indeed.” Gandalf tucked the blade away in his robes, seeing how Thranduil’s shoulders eased as the last of its presence faded. “But though I am not the strongest of my order, I am likewise not the weakest! One or two Nazgûl I can fend off, long enough to see my labor done.”

“There are more dark things in Dol Guldur than a Necromancer, Nazgûl or no,” Tauriel said. “My lord, I am the least of your subjects. Surely I can be spared! If I can aid Mithrandir in clearing that keep and spare our lands from further blight—“

Legolas moved abruptly in protest. But it was Thranduil who said, in a voice all the more terrible for its softness, “Be silent, Tauriel. I have fought Nazgûl, and lost much to them. I will not allow them to take another I hold dear from me. I will hear no more of this.”

Hurt chased joy and love in Tauriel’s face, but she bowed her head in obedience, graceful even though her stiffness spoke of rebellion. Legolas too, bowed his head: but there was trouble in his face, and in the look he cast Gandalf before his gaze lowered.

“Well!” Gandalf said, into that suffocating silence. “I must be to bed, if I am to leave in the morning. I will send word from Lorien of what I find. I’ll leave my hobbits to you, in my absence. Take good care of Bilba, if you please! She has nothing to do with this matter, and has more than enough on her mind than to worry her about this.”

“If she continues as she has started, it is far more likely she will be taking care of us. She seems to feel us incapable of doing so ourselves,” Legolas said, in an attempt at his earlier cheer. “Never fear, Gandalf. We will treat her as she deserves!”

“And if that doesn’t strike one as ominous,” Gandalf mused to himself, stumping back to his room, “I can’t think imagine what would!”

 

 

Gandalf left the next morning. “Wizard business,” he declared, when Bilba attempted to convince him to stay. He smiled fondly down at her. “I’ll be back soon enough, though.”

“You’re going to Dol Guldur, then?” Bilba asked anxiously.

“I’ve a few things that need looking into. I suppose you could say I am about to go searching for Adventure. Just like some hobbits I know.” From the way Gandalf’s gaze shifted quickly and then back again, Bilba understood that her ring was one of those things he meant to investigate.

Primula squeaked, zipping into Gandalf’s robes with Rory and Hamfast a short second behind her. Drogo started scolding immediately while Legolas, Tauriel, and the dwarves laughed, and Gandalf turned in dismayed circles. Even Thranduil’s eyes were smiling behind his unruffled calm.

In the end, Gandalf left slightly later than he originally intended. After he left, it was the dwarves’ turn. Bilba carefully tied her letters around their legs: Quickwing was to carry one for Bofur and Bifur; Braveclaw was to carry one for Crown Prince Thorin. To her dismay, she found her eyes growing damp during the operation, and she gave a watery little sniff when she stepped back, finished.

The dwarves regarded her with alarm.

“You know your way?” she asked.

Quickwing nodded vigorously. Braveclaw, more dignified, inclined his head once. The other hobbits were attempting to groom the dwarves in farewell, an awkward business since they were far smaller.

“Stay above the trees to avoid the spiders,” Legolas said. “When you return, alert the guards and they will open the way for you.”

“And be careful,” Bilba said anxiously. “Fly straight to the palace. Master Oak— the Prince can have the letter to Bofur delivered. Be polite. Try not to bite or claw anyone. Unless they deserve it. And give my condolences to Princess Dís. Although I wrote that in the letter. Don’t take food from strangers. And don’t fly in the dark, your night vision is terrible. I’ve asked them to make sure any rooms they put you in have open windows, and are clearly lit. If anything sensitive is being discussed, excuse yourselves. They don’t know you’re dwarves. And—“

The dwarves were looking increasingly harassed. “Enough,” Thranduil said, dropping his hand on Bilba’s shoulders. He sounded almost amused. “They are only going for a short visit this first time. If they do not return in five days, Legolas will go and find them.” He gave the dwarves a warning look.

They sniffed. But it could be seen that Braveclaw, at least, bobbed his head in grudging acquiescence.

“Oh dear.” Bilba sniffed too. “Are we both catching a cold?” She sniffled again.

With a small chirp, Braveclaw stretched to gently bump her forehead with his. As he fluttered off her shoulder, Quickwing took his place to do the same. Then they both launched themselves skyward, followed by the hobbits and shrieking in answer to her called, “Good-bye! Have a good time!”

She lingered to watch them disappear into the sky, and collected all her fellow hobbits before turning back to her elf hosts.

“Now that that’s done,” she said, hands on her hips and blinking back the last of her tears, “I’d best be started with making magic. Oh dear.” She sighed. “I hope this works.”

 


	19. Time Passes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which time passes; Bilba learns willfully going mute is problematic; Thorin struggles with casual correspondence; the elves marvel; Thranduil interferes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have been chaotic, so I've had pretty much zero energy and time to work on story editing and writing. My apologies! It doesn't look like things will get much better for another couple of weeks, but I stole minutes here and there to get the next chapter fixed up and posted.
> 
> I probably won't be able to post again for another couple of weeks, but I have hopes once I do I'll be able to get back to the regular schedule. Thank you to everyone who's patiently stuck with me and this story!

 

_Dear Bofur,_

_I am glad to hear that you and Bifur returned Safely, and that you have your Own Shop so quickly! It was Kind of the lady to help establish You and Your Cousin. Please give Bifur my Warmest Regards, and Hopes for Your Success._

_I have written down another Little Story that I didn’t have a chance to tell you on the road. I hope you enjoy it. You asked how I felt about toys modeled after My Mother. I was surprised at first, but after some thought I think she would be Flattered and Amused. I remember the toys you carved around the fireside during our journey, and if they come out half so fine, I will be sure to come to Erebor to buy one for myself!_

_We had many Adventures on the road after we Parted Ways. We were Chased quite a ways by goblins and wargs, Nasty Creatures that they were. If you still see Harvi about, please inform him that his Trick with the Backswing worked quite wonderfully, although yours and Bifur’s lessons about Running Away proved far more Useful. Fortunately, we were saved in the Nick of Time by a remarkable Man named Beorn. I was quite Frightened of him when we first met! Besides being quite the largest Man I ever met, he is also a Skin-Changer and turns into an Enormous Bear. He was quite ferocious, and Killed several goblins with One Blow of his Paw!_

_The world is indeed Very Large and Wild that has such Peculiar Things in it. The Shire is never so Dangerous. It is quite enough for me to wish I was Safely Home! Although then I would not have met such Good Friends as you and Bifur (and Elves as well! Though I would not offend your Delicate Dwarven Sensibilities by naming them) so perhaps it is Just As Well I have gone on this little Adventure of mine. I do not Regret it._

_As a Man, Beorn is very Jolly, and apparently quite fond of Feeding Hobbits—a trait that any hobbit can appreciate and quite Redeems him for his occasional Identity-based Idiosyncrasies! He kindly gave us Shelter until it was time to Move On. As for where I am now, Gandalf tells me that this is something I Should Not Share, but rest assured that I am Well and Safe, under the Protection of gentlebeings whose hospitality meets the exacting standards of even the most Persnickety Hobbit._

_I hope to come visit you Some Day, though I’m afraid that that time will Not be soon. I did not mention this on the journey, but I have an Important Task to perform while I am in the East, and until that is Done, everything else Must Wait. How long it will take, I am unsure as yet. But Rest Assured, one day you will look up from the Horde of Children clamoring at your knees, and see a Friendly Hobbit Face peering in at you from the door of your shop._

_Until that day, my Earnest Wishes for your Success!_

_Bilbo Baggins_

 

 

 

 

 

Thorin recognized Bifur and Bofur about two seconds  _after_  Bofur slapped him hard on the back and his head exploded with hangover-induced agony.

"Prince!" crowed Bofur.

It occurred to Thorin that he really needed to fire his current guards. 

"Ah, don't mind them," Bofur said, accurately reading his accusing glare at the sheepish-looking guards stationed nearby. "They know we're harmless.   _—_ Here, Wagir, did you ever clear up that foot problem o'yours?"

One of the guards, presumably Wagir, colored under his black beard. 

"Why are you here," Thorin ground out through his teeth. His headache was agony. It was a headache that was Bofur's fault, for that matter: the toymaker had no excuse for looking so cheerful after as much as he'd drunk last night.

"We live here," Bofur said, his merry eyes widening in astonishment. He threw his arms wide to indicate the market, the great hall that was, barring the treasury, the largest open space in Erebor. Mid-morning, it was alive with dwarves and the occasional Man, and the muted roar of thousands of voices pounded in time with Thorin's head. Or perhaps it was Thorin's head that pounded in time with the noise.

He glared apathetically at Bofur, and was a little gratified when Bifur slapped his cousin upside the head, dislodging the ridiculous hat.

"Manners," said Bifur, admirable dwarf! and bowed politely to Thorin, murmuring traditional greetings in the courtliest of courtly Khuzdûl. "You wished to know if we heard from Master Bilbo," he ended.

 _Master Bilbo_ took a few moments to slog through the mudslip of Thorin's thoughts. "The halfling," he remembered at last.

"He prefers 'hobbit,'" Bofur said, but added on a bright laugh, "And we've heard from him, in case you'd no notion. Just this morning! By way of birds."

"Birds," echoed Thorin stupidly. "What birds?"

"Quickwing and Braveclaw, the hawks," Bifur said quietly, while Bofur guffawed again— blast the dwarf! Thorin wondered if he could have him clapped in iron for attempting to murder him with alcohol. "You recall, you sent a letter to Bilbo to inquire—"

Thorin's thoughts grated and clanked, and something painful began to turn. "Dís," he remembered. Despite his imminent death, he roused with anticipation and hope. "Hawks. Here? Where?"

Bofur scratched his hat. "Funny thing, that," he said, casting his gaze up. "They were here just a minute ago."

The three dwarves cast a look out across the market hall, so high that the ceiling was too far to see. There were miles of tunnels in Erebor: every morning, the sweepers dumped the bodies of bats and birds that had found their way into the mountain and starved to death.

Thorin suppressed the urge to bury his face in his hands and crawl back to sleep. Even Bifur's hearty clout on the back of Bofur's head did nothing to cheer him. "Call out the royal guard," he told Wagir grimly. "We need to find those birds."

 

 

 

 

 

_Prince Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór,_

_Thank you for your Letter and the News about the Goblins. I am glad my Friends Braveclaw and Quickwing were able to be of Assistance. Please accept my Heartfelt Sympathies for the Loss of your Nephews. Of course if there’s anything we can do, we would be Most Happy to assist. Braveclaw and Quickwing have agreed to Visit your sister Dís, and Thank You for your Hospitality. I hope they can be of Service._

_Gandalf has suggested that I write to you some Instructions for their Care, and that as a dwarf of Honor and a Good Host, you would see that these would be seen to._

_Quickwing is the Larger of the two hawks, and can be recognized by the Black Dappling on the sides of his Head. Braveclaw’s coloring is paler, and when he turns his head there’s a Gold Sheen to his Crown. Also, if you look closely, there are paler Gold Markings down his Throat. The two have very Different Personalities. Braveclaw is Quieter and More Thoughtful, but when he becomes Angered he holds onto a grudge for a Very Long Time. He is Sensitive to moods, and is especially Good Company when one wants to be Quiet, or think Out Loud. He occasionally likes to be alone. Quickwing is always In Motion, and constantly getting into Trouble out of curiosity or pure High Spirits. He Enjoys Company, and is quite willing to hold a conversation even if one can’t understand his replies. Both of them can be Very Merry. You will grow to recognize hawk laughter._

_I am told that it is Cold in the mountains, but Braveclaw and Quickwing must Always have an Open Window so that they can come and go as they will. Hawks do not naturally live under stone, and they need to Fly Regularly or they will become Unwell. For the most part they can hunt for their own food, but if the winds are too high or it grows too cold outside, they will need Fresh Raw Meat that they can rip apart for themselves. They will eat until they are full, and then they will chuse to stop. There is No Concern for overfeeding._

_Please do not allow anyone to grab them. Under no circumstances should they ever be caged, leashed, or trapped. Damaged wings or feathers can be Fatal. Treat them as though they were thinking beings who understand you, for they are. Though their bodies are those of birds, their Minds are as Sharp as Any Dwarf’s. Speak to them as they were dwarves, and they will be appreciative of the Courtesy._

_Please Guard them Well. They are My Friends, and they do not have the Common Speech to let their Needs be Known. In this I trust you, as Gandalf bids me, that they will fare well under Your Protection._

_Yrs,_

_Bilbo Baggins, Master of Bag End, gentlehobbit of the Shire_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ría stepped out of Dís’s bedroom and startled to find Thorin outside, waiting on her.

“Master Thorin,” she said, dropping a curtsey. With the heavy tray in her hand, it was a half-finished, clumsy bob at best, but Prince Thorin had never cared about protocol from the old family servants. Nor did he now. He frowned over the full dinner tray, the plates untouched save for the bowl that once held gobbets of freshly-butchered meat. Then he glanced through the open door at the stiff, silent figure seated by the fire.

“Has she said anything yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she said, looking down at the full plates and bowls.

His mouth tightened. Even in her concern for Dís, Ría couldn’t help but notice how the expression drew fire into Thorin’s eyes. Any ‘dam would be lucky, she reflected, with maternal pride for her old mistress’s son. “At least the bird ate well,” he said sourly.

This, at least, was good news she could give. “She fed him by hand.”

It was a small thing, but it was something. Thorin’s scowl did not change, but his face lightened nonetheless.

“Now if only they’d—“ Thorin began, only to break off with a shout of fury. A sleek brown blur had glided unseen through the door and attempted to land on Thorin’s head. Several loud and combative minutes passed. At the end of them, the hawk was perched smugly on the arm of Dís’s chair, and Thorin, his hair and braids in complete disarray, was shouting obscenities. “ _Do not ever—_!” he roared.

Ría watched her mistress turn her head to stare at Thorin. It was the first time Dís had acknowledged another dwarf’s presence since she’d returned to Erebor.

Unabashed tears sprang into Ría’s eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_To the halfling, Master Baggins,_

_What languages do your blasted chickens understand?_

_Signed Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Crown Prince Under the Mountain_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Malfindon was making an effort not to look at the _perian's_  . . . at the  _thing_ the _perian_  was trying to make.

“There is a dye that can be made from the flowers of Nienna’s Tears,” he was saying in a strained voice. “It is not commonly used, as it fades over repeated washing, but it might be used to add some color to your . . . fabric.”

He dared a quick, pained glance at the loom, winced at the uneven journey of the beater and treadles— _cla-cli-CLUNK-a-THUNK! THUD! cla-cli-CLUNK-a-THUNK_! _THUD!_ and sighed. He bent to claim the  _perian's_  attention with a touch to the shoulder, then mimed again the proper technique with hands and feet.

She beamed at him. _Cla-CLUNK_! _THUMP-THA-THUMP!_  For a few seconds, all was well. Then it was back to _cla-cli-CLUNK-a-THUNK!_   _THUD!_ again. Another wincing glance confirmed that there were loops of thread dangling out of the sides of the shroud in progress. Malfindon sighed. The halfling was a rather endearing little thing, but there was something about her poor weaving that made his jaw hinges throb with tension.

It was better than it was, at least. He picked moodily at his own spindle, dipping his head just as the one named Drogo swooped down in another attempt to land on his shoulder. Thwarted, the bird plunked down atop the loom’s breast beam and chittered irritably.

Malfindon frowned at him. Then he tilted his head, refocusing on the drab cloth growing on the wooden frame. He rose, stooping to investigate further.

How peculiar.

“Mistress Bilberry,” said Malfindon, “you have dropped an ell in your weft. Do you see here, where you have not passed the shuttle through the last two bends in the loom’s frame. Is that intentional, or—“ He pointed.

The  _perian's_  hands stilled. She squinted. Then her jaw dropped. “Oh, bebothe— _Egg-sucker!_ ”

Malfindon and the bird looked at each other. “I thought you were not to speak?” Malfindon said hesitantly.

The _perian_  shrieked.

 

 

 

 

 

_Prince Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór,_

_How are you? Thank you for your Kind Inquiries into my well-being. Your Graciousness and Courtesy is as always Remarkable for such a Humble HOBBIT as Yrs Truly. I am Productively Occupied at present, and am enjoying a run of Good Health._

_As to your question, the hawks Understand the Common Speech well enough. I’m afraid I cannot attest to more than that, however. Are they being Difficult? I have found that on Occasion, vigorously Acting Out what you would like in Gestures can be Productive. The hawks seem to enjoy it, at any rate. I am informed by a Trustworthy Source that such exercise is also Good for the Humours and promotes Good Digestion._

_I Regret to inform you that I will likely No Longer be able to respond to Further Inquiries, as I was only able to respond to your letter due to an Unfortunate Accident. If all goes well, I shall hope to be Unable to Indulge in any further correspondence._

_My best to your family and my Sincere Wishes for your Sister’s Happiness._

_Yrs,_

_Bilbo Baggins, HOBBIT of the Shire_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You’re brooding again,” Balin sighed.

“I am not brooding,” Thorin said. He tossed the halfling’s letter back in his desk drawer and tried to apply himself to the subject of marble trade deficits. It was dull reading. While Balin was distracted with an objection to the latest proposal from the Blackjacks, Thorin snuck the letter out again to glare at it. Impudent halfling. The creature lacked respect and proper appreciation for the honor paid to him by Durin’s line. By rights, he should be grateful for the opportunity to be of service to Dís.

He became aware of a dull drilling sensation in his temple. Balin was staring fixedly at him. Pretending to be oblivious to that penetrating look, Thorin folded the letter away and bent back to his work.

For all of ten minutes.

“Thorin,” Balin said.

“Mm,” Thorin said, distracted.

Balin plucked the letter out of his hands.

Thorin was Crown Prince Under the Mountain: he did not squawk. He made a dignified sound of protest, forcibly kept himself from wrestling with Balin to get it back, and folded his arms to glower at his old advisor. Who was reading over the exceedingly _impertinent_ letter.

“You’re smiling,” Thorin accused with outrage.

“Nonsense,” Balin said, hastily clearing his throat. “I had a passing thought, is all. An amusing one. Unrelated to the letter. He’s a lively writer, this Master Bilbo Baggins. I suppose his advice on acting out your requests to the hawks was successful?” He looked up, his blue eyes suspiciously innocent.

Thorin ground his teeth. “I have not tried it to see.”

“Ah, well, acting was never your strong suit.” Balin handed back the letter, which Thorin stuffed back into his desk. “The hawks seem to be doing Dís a world of good, though. I noticed she’s regaining some weight. And Ría tells me she’s even reacting to her from time to time.”

That, at least, was true. “Blasted chickens,” Thorin said, torn between jealousy and gratitude. “They’ve as little respect as the halfling. They keep putting raw meat on my pillow, and I found a feather in my bath yesterday. How the thing got in when the door was locked—“

“They’re rather intelligent for birds, aren’t they?” Balin said thoughtfully. “One of them joined us for breakfast yesterday. They’re driving my brother mad with the way they seem to elude all the guards. And they keep pulling his hair.”

On the other hand, perhaps the damned things were a good addition to the mountain after all. Thorin brightened at the thought of Dwalin’s horrible mohawk being plucked out, strand by strand.

Balin smiled at him, his eyes twinkling. He passed a thick sheaf of parchment across the desk. “These are ready to go. All they need are your signature and seal.”

Resigned to work, Thorin accepted the document, scanning down the first page as he reached for the wax and the seal he kept on his desk.

His fingers grabbed empty air. Still reading, he groped further. Still nothing.

He absent-mindedly looked to find the mithril stamp that had passed down to the line of crown princes since the days of Durin IV.

A downy feather puffed out from the passing draft of his fingers, and gently wafted down to the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_To the halfling, Master Baggins,_

_Your hawks have taken to stealing things from my rooms and hiding them. Order them to desist immediately._

_Signed Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Crown Prince Under the Mountain_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Her weaving skills are not _worse_ ,” Malfindon conceded, looking pained.

Tauriel peered in through the door of the _perian's_  workroom, her eyebrows rising at the surprising number of people present. The regular _snick-snack-snick-snack_ of the shuttle flying and the occasional _thump_ and _clank_ of the beater and the treadles were a soothing rhythm over the quiet twitter of birds and the liquid notes of a harp.

She counted no less than four elves, practicing their own personal crafts while the little figure of Bilba labored industriously at her loom. It was Hanneth at the harp, she saw with surprise. The _elleth_ was particular about where and when she chose to practice, and Tauriel would have thought this busy room would be anathema to the temperamental musician.

Reluctant to disturb the busy crafters, she nonetheless stepped inside. Bilba was overdue for both her lunch and her sword practice. The moment she entered, she understood immediately what had drawn the other elves here. Even at the edges of the room, she could feel the magic of the shroud being born—a warmth like an embrace, a sweet caress: tears prickled her eyes all unsummoned. She thought she detected the scent of her mother, a memory of the love and compassion almost forgotten over the centuries.

Malfindon hovered at her side, his usual air of faint anxiety seeping away to one of peace. “It is a marvel, is it not?” he said quietly.

Tauriel trod on silent feet to the loom, circumventing the various things flung to the floor and feeling drawn to the lumpy cloth being put together bit by bit. By any elven standard it was ugly at best, though Bilba had labored long on it over the last five weeks. Barely two fingers-breadth was finished, but Tauriel could feel how the magic strengthened as it grew, thread by thread. She marveled at it. Never before had she felt the touch of the Valar, save through the beauty of the woods of Arda. If this was a shadow of Estë and Vairë’s love for Eru’s children, how much greater must the origin be? For the first time in centuries, she thought of sailing to the Undying Lands where the Valar dwelled, and did not recoil at the very idea.

But Bilba was peering guiltily up at her now, and though Tauriel could willingly have spent hours basking in this unlooked for magic, she had her duties. “You have not eaten,” she told the little _perian_ , less sternly than she might. “My lord will be displeased.”

Bilba rolled her eyes. While the lack of words had limited her, it had made her no less expressive. Her face was an endless delight of strong opinions, very few of which she kept to herself: in a glance, anyone could see that while she held King Thranduil in esteem and strong affection, she found his fussing over her health an irritating flaw in his character. Tauriel smothered a laugh. Thranduil had celebrated the little _perian’s_ third assay into muteness by gravely hand-feeding her grapes until she’d thrown them at his head.

“Galion is coming with a tray,” Tauriel said, smiling down at the little female, whose shuttle was now zipping across the loom with more force than strictly necessary. “And once you have eaten, we will go to sword practice. It will not be so strenuous today,” she reassured at Bilba’s look of chagrin. “We will only drill for an hour, and then we will have you spar against Erymben; he needs to learn to be more flexible, and you need a new partner—thus you both help each other, to the benefit of both.”

It was plain that Bilba did not think much of _benefit for both_ , though she was resigned. The shuttle clacked sadly. But she was not to add too much more to the shroud in any event — Galion came in with the promised tray, and Tauriel saw in an instant that he was drunk.

Of course he would be, she realized in dismay. The half-yearly delivery of Dorwinian had arrived last night.

“Lady of Light!” cried Galion, weaving through the packed room with a tray held high. “What is this crowd, then? Have you nowhere else to go, you lazy folk, while some of us labor our fingers to the bone to keep you fed and housed? For shame!”

Tauriel saw disaster approach too swiftly for her to react to it. One of the sleek hounds that often trailed Annúnor’s meanderings through the Halls was sprawled out beside the ellon. Galion’s wavering steps staggered to one side; his foot caught against the dog’s hindquarters. The dog yelped. Galion yelped no less loudly, and stumbled.

The tray went soaring.

The horrified elves traced its path overhead, hot water arcing out from the teapot in a fine, jeweled spray, pastries and sauces gliding gracefully after.

It all came crashing down on the oblivious Bilba’s head.

“ _Ow!_ ” she shrieked, leaping up. “ _What in—?!_ ” She cut herself off, too late. Her cheek was already reddening where she had been scalded.

All present felt the moment that the magic winked out. It was a quiet thing, like a string cut. In the space of a word the room chilled, the warmth of a mother’s touch withdrawn. Loneliness and loss gripped the hearts of the elves.

They stared at each other, stricken.

Bilba burst into tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Prince Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, DWARF,_

_A kind word is worth more than coronets. Might I suggest a politely worded request directly applied to them?_

_Bilbo Baggins, still a HOBBIT._

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What,” Legolas said, bewildered, “is _that_?”

He pointed at Bilba’s little face. She frowned at him over the appalling— _thing_. Tauriel was giving him a warning look, but he could not tear his eyes away: nor did he think he should have to. The _thing_ on her face was an offense against all things beautiful.

He narrowed his eyes further.

“You look just like your father,” Tauriel said. “It is a gag, as you know full well, Legolas Thranduilion.”

“You did not put that in her mouth,” he said with certainty.

“She did. And if you had been here instead of taking the long patrol this past month, you would have been here to persuade her not to go to this extreme.”

“I did not _choose_ to go.”

“If you had not elected to get the hobbit birds drunk and then tie little boots around their feet, so that your father was forced to send you out on long patrol before Bilba bludgeoned you to death with your own bow, then.”

“I was being hospitable,” Legolas said. But his gaze was still fixed on the . . . gag. _Thing_.

Bilba folded her arms, her face taking on a stubborn cast as Legolas exchanged stares with her. After a long moment, his face still unchanged, he took a bread roll from his plate and began poking it at the cloth and leather contraption covering her mouth.

She glared at him.

“You are _very_ like your father,” Tauriel sighed. “She went to Laerornor and persuaded him to make it for her. She removes it from time to time. I believe it is only until she grows accustomed to not speaking when surprised.”

She sounded unsure of that judgment, Legolas noted. “My father cannot have agreed with this.”

“He has . . . voiced his opinion,” she said. She glanced at Bilba’s increasingly cross face. “But it is her choice, after all. And it has worked, insofar as keeping her from unplanned exclamations. She has made progress on the shroud and not wasted the work, even when she fell in the river the other day.” Her gaze drifted up to study the ceiling. Carefully neutral, she added, “She was fishing, apparently. The river guards pulled her out.”

Legolas stopped poking Bilba’s face with the roll, his eyes going wide with dismay. “You did _what_? What foolishness. You are too small! A fish would swallow you whole!”

“ _Very_ like your father,” Tauriel murmured.

Bilba snatched the roll out of his hand and threw it at his head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_To the halfling, Master Baggins,_

_You plainly know nothing about the value of coronets._

_Signed Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, by the will of Mahal the Maker, Crown Prince Under the Mountain_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _Now_ what’s got you in a snit?” Dwalin demanded.

Thorin ignored him with the regal dignity of a Durin. He was busy watching Dís reunite with the newly arrived hawk—Quickwing, he thought it was—and accept whatever small token it had seen fit to bring her this time. A collection of them was growing on her mantel; soon there wouldn’t be room for them, as the birds brought her something every time they came to visit.

Cold prickled up his arms. He fought down a shiver. Dís’s room was always uncomfortable because of the open casement windows, but that was, after all, one of the halfling’s conditions. Dwarves always kept their agreements. Besides, there was a fire. And they were Durins, after all. Regal, dignified Durins. They could damn well handle a little cold. He cast a glance at his father, who was seated by Dís and patiently telling her about his day in the hopes he could coax her to speak. Thorin drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. Regal. Dignified. 

Dwalin, who was utter balls at being a regal, dignified Durin, jabbed his fingers in Thorin’s not-at-all-ticklish ribs. Mahal, what was he, twelve?

Thorin glared at him.

“Still no letter from the halfling?” Balin asked, looking up from where he was reviewing the scribes’ notes from the meeting with the Blue Quarter miners.

“I wasn’t expecting one,” Thorin said sharply, as Braveclaw bumped heads with Dís and winged out into the night.

“True, it’s been a few months.”

“Four.”

“That long?” said Balin, eyebrows rising.

“The great tit was rude to him,” Dwalin said.

“I am never rude,” Thorin said tersely.

“Aye,” said Dwalin. “You skip rude and go straight to offensive.”

Thorin abandoned dignity and kicked him in the shins.

Dwalin looked injured. “Wasn’t saying it was a _bad_ thing.”

Thráin looked up from his one-sided conversation, his eyebrows rising. “You _have_ had training in diplomacy, _inùdoy._ I distinctly remember all four of you sitting in classes with Fundin shouting at you—“

“Seemed hypocritical, him shouting at us when it were lessons on diplomacy,” Dwalin grumbled.

“—And you are _capable_ of being polite. I know. I’ve witnessed it myself.” Thráin speared Thorin with a frown that did little to disguise his tired amusement.

“He started it. The halfling is bad-tempered,” Thorin said, folding his arms and feeling foolish. He absolutely wasn’t annoyed or worried at the halfling’s silence. They’d exchanged all of what, five letters? Eight, if he counted the exchange in the Misty Mountains. And the halfling had said he was about some sort of business that would make it impossible for him to correspond further, besides.

It was utterly unimportant. Thorin didn’t care at all. He didn’t even know the creature. He didn’t even _like_ the creature.

He watched Dís listening gravely to Quickwing’s chittering, for all the world as though she understood and was interested in the hawk’s gossip, and felt himself soften a little. The birds plainly had good taste, to be so loyal to Dís. And there was no doubt that the halfling had their devotion as well.

Perhaps Thorin liked the halfling a _little_ bit. But only for the sake of his sister.

“We could invite him to the mountain,” Balin suggested, scribbling a note in a margin of parchment and turning to a new page. “As a token of gratitude for allowing his birds to visit.”

"Invite the halfling?" Thráin looked thoughtful. His eyes narrowed in sudden speculation.

Thorin’s mood lifted for no reason in particular. He opened his mouth.

“Damn things,” grumbled Dwalin, before he could say a word. “The only good bird is one that’s stuffed and roasted.”

A split second later, Dwalin was swearing and ducking. Looking remarkably pleased with himself, Quickwing settled atop the mantle and inspected the long black strands of hair he’d managed to pluck out of Dwalin’s mohawk.

The language Dwalin was using would’ve gotten him a caning if Fundin were still alive.

Dís looked at him. Then she looked at the hawk. In a voice gravelly with disuse, she said her first words in almost a year. “Good bird."

 

 

 

 

 

 

_To the hobbit, Master Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. On behalf of His Majesty, Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, and Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, styled Oakenshield, Crown Prince Under the Mountain, you are hereby commanded to an audience at the 10th candle, on the fourth day of the third month with their Highnesses at the Court of Erebor, to recognize your services to the Line of Durin._

_Lord Balin, son of Fundin, son of Náin_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“And what is this?” Thranduil asked, holding the heavy, sealed parchment with the tips of his fingers.

“Letter,” said Galion unhelpfully.

Thranduil looked at his steward with disdain.

“From dwarves,” Galion added.

“Yes,” Thranduil said patiently. “So I see.”

“To the  _perian_.”

Not for the first time, Thranduil wished Galion hadn’t saved his life at Mordor. The ellon made a good warrior and an erratically decent friend, but he was a terrible servant. “I should have you flogged,” he sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Galion, utterly unimpressed by a threat that Thranduil had made many times and yet never acted on, said mournfully, “I thought you’d like to see it.”

“Does she know you took it?” Thranduil asked.

“Dwarves shouldn’t be writing letters to her,” Galion said dolefully, treating the question as rhetorical. “They’ll try to steal her.”

Thranduil suppressed a frown. He was in sympathy with this opinion, which was shared by most of the Woodland Realm. There was ample precedence to bolster such opinion. The dwarves of Erebor had not been entirely fortunate neighbors over the centuries, though this particular generation had yet to demonstrate the worst cupidity of their kind.

Though from what Legolas had told him of his visit to the mountain a year ago, and King Bard had written in the months since, it was only a matter of time.

He read it. The letter itself was brief, and the neat handwriting familiar. The invitation was impossible.

It was as well that Galion had brought it to him, Thranduil reflected. Even if she had the ability to respond, Bilba would have dithered about with her rejection, conveying things in her roundabout, polite hobbit way so that _no_ would look like _yes_ with a side serving of _perhaps_. Dwarves, he knew from long experience, needed to handled with direct statements. They were rarely subtle. And almost never bright.

“Leave us,” he said, taking up his pen and considering how best to make the point clear enough that even thickheaded Durins would get the point. They would be unfamiliar with his handwriting in Erebor, which would serve to keep her location secret. “I will write the reply.”

Galion bowed, the depth of it measured to a nicety, and spirited himself away.

An irritating twinge of fondness warmed Thranduil. Bilba would no doubt be exasperated at his interference, and would be vigorous in her disapproval. Well, so be it. Better she be exasperated at him than be at the mercy of  _dwarves_.

He bent to his letter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_To Lord Balin,_

_Master Bilbo Baggins is no longer available for intercourse with dwarves. Inform your royals accordingly._

_A friend of Master Baggins_


End file.
